


Smoke in the Mirror

by Catsitta



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: "Do fish like jazz?", "Hotcat" jokes, 1930's aesthetic, Alternate Universe - Mobfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate universe - Mafia, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flirty Frisk (Undertale), Fluff and Angst, Gallows Humor, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Sans (Undertale) Has Issues, Scars, Skeletons In Suits, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Teenage Frisk (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Undertale Monsters on the Surface, kustard - Freeform, mafiatale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-07-17 08:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsitta/pseuds/Catsitta
Summary: Red is no stranger to doing whatever it takes to stay alive. First Underground and now in this kill-or-be-killed city. He's done it all, from smuggling illegal goods to killing Don Dreemur's enemies on command, to carve out out a reputation for himself.So how in the Angel's name did this no LV piece of FreeExp come to be so close to Lady Dreemur and her kid?Mobtale!Sans/Mobfell!Sans | Loose chapters with an overarching plot





	1. Freelancer

**Author's Note:**

> Story rating may rise. Only rated as high as it is now 'cause of Red's mouth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ [Cover art](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/178625813272/smoke-in-the-mirror-cover-art-4-versions) ]
> 
> How many jobs does Sans have around this city?

“hotcat?”

Red stared at the skelton minding the cart with undisguised revulsion,“fuck off.”

Sans’ dopey smile widened as he wriggled the proffered snack in his direction. It was a water sausage grilled up on a bun, two little triangles cut onto one end like ears. Given the number of coins in the tip jar, they were a popular treat with the lunchtime crowd.

“c’mon red, give one a try,” he said. “i’ll even drown it in mustard so you don’t hafta look at it’s cute little face.” Sans snickered when Red growled, putting every pointed tooth on display. Smug piece of shit. Someone oughta put his teeth out. Teach him why messing with one of Don Dreemur’s men was a brief life decision. Except every time someone tried in the past, Sans walked away uninjured, too slippery to catch. Too calm for a 1hp piece of FreeExp. Ebott City ate people alive—monsters and humans alike. Yet here was Sans, teasing a well known member of the mafia like he didn’t think Red would dust him for it.

Unfortunately, he was right.

Lady Dreemur’s orders.

Angel above, Red hated making promises.

Turning his back on Sans, he stormed away, claws itching for the gun under his jacket.

 

“fancy seeing you again, al- _red_ -y.”

Choking on a cigar was one of the less graceful moments in Red’s life. He left the burning butt smoldering on the street, the ember bright in the dark alley behind Grillby’s. Was it so much to ask to smoke in peace after delivering a shipment of booze? His bro didn’t allow the habit at their apartment, and Red wasn’t in a mood to get screamed at. 

Crimson eyelights darted to the bane of his existence. Still in the same rumpled white shirtsleeves and blue vest from this afternoon, Sans hauled a box into the alley. “when did yer start workin’ fer grillbz?” Red demanded, his voice rough with agitation. The purple fire elemental never mentioned seeing this pansy ass doppelganger of Red’s, much less said a word about hiring him. Sans, as always, didn’t seem bothered or concerned by the other monster’s tone. Even before Lady Dreemur put a leash on Red’s fervent wish to throttle the skeleton he acted this way. As if he was untouchable. Smiled down the barrel of a pistol when it looked him in the sockets.

How he wasn’t dead yet was a mystery.

“he needed some help in the storeroom, i had some time. someone has to put the bottles away when he gets a shipment in. stacks o’ boxes are just askin’ for trouble.” Sans tucked his hands into his pants pockets, stance loose and lazy. How anyone mixed them up (ever) was anyone’s guess. No lv, abysmally-fitted navy attire, dull teeth...white eyelights....no scars. It was like looking into a mirror that showed you what you might have been had life decided to be nice and not stomped on your hopes and dreams. Only thing they had in common (in his so very important opinion) was their name. Red wasn’t Red until this comedian showed up. Just another reason to hate the guy.

“like what’cha see?” Red lurched back at the query. Sans snickered, browbones lifting. “you were starin’ awful long. enough to get me thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“just thinkin’ ‘bout the different ways I could dust yer.”

“awe, and here i thought we were becoming pals,” Sans said, rocking from heel-to-toe. “it’s been a week since you last threatened me.”

A bone materialized in Red’s hand, one end sharpened like a spear. Monsters with any sense in their skulls would have backed up or started blubbering, Sans was no such monster. He traced the summoned magic with his eyelights and shrugged. No self preservation instincts whatsoever. Not for the first time Red wondered what this skeleton had over Lady Dreemur, what made him untouchable by the Family. His very existence was insulting.

He wanted to crush the weakling with his bare hands. Pump him with lead. Pop him so full of holes you could see the daylight through him before he fell to pieces,

But no…

“watch yer yap,” Red growled. “‘fore i break yer jaw.” As a low HP monster himself—circumstances from his youth left him with a measly 1 before he gained lv—he knew a thing or two about how to damage the body while preserving the soul. Nobody said nothing about roughing up the smart mouth. Maybe he’d carve his and Boss’ initials on Sans’ forehead so he couldn’t look in the mirror without remembering to never mess with the Gaster brothers again.

Sans made a buttoning motion over his smile...and winked. Then he slipped back into Grillby’s without another word.

When Red tossed open the door to follow, the other skeleton was gone.

 

Morning arrived with a bang. Specifically, his brother banging on his door, spouting half-empty threats about what he’d do if Red didn’t get up. He grumbled and rolled over, rubbing a hand over aching sockets. Even his own bro called him Red now. Said it was far more intimidating than Comic Sans. Not like he named himself at birth! Before his brother could haul him off his bare mattress, the skeleton got up and dressed. His room might be a wasteland of abandoned socks and mustard bottles, but Red liked looking like a hundred bucks. 

Growing up digging through the dump for a pair of shoes that had soles on the bottom gave a monster a real appreciation of the finer things in life.

Black button up and slacks fitted to his frame, a crimson vest, shiny black shoes and a gold cufflinks to match his false tooth. All he needed was his jacket and hat, and he’d be ready for a day out on the town. Red was strapping on his gun holster when his brother barged in, sharp as always in matching attire. Except Papyrus dwarfed Red in height, and the styles that made Red look broad (and debatably fleshy), emphasized his lean physique. His younger sibling was all legs and shoulders. Lucky bastard.

“WE HAVE A JOB TONIGHT, BROTHER,” Papyrus announced, sneering at the state of Red’s room. Red kept his clutter confined to his space, knowing full well his bro would have a fit if a single sock escaped to invade his otherwise pristine domain. Where he inherited that quirk would forever confound him. When their old man was alive, the only thing he obsessed over was his work: food and tidiness were an afterthought. “UNDYNE IS MEETING US AT MUFFET’S WITH THE DETAILS. HURRY UP!”

“fucks sake boss, throw a guy a bone,” Red rolled crimson eyelights, shifting when Papyrus’ sockets narrowed. A touch of sweat beaded on his skull. His brother had a helluva temper, downside of LV, but since they came to the Surface the taller skeleton kept it better managed. “just need a few more minutes.”  
He checked his reflection to make sure his jacket covered his holster. 

Had it already been eight years since the barrier broke?

Red plopped his hat on and meandered after Papyrus out the door. It was a nice day. Blue skies and a breeze to chase away the rising heat of summer. The walk to Muffet’s wasn’t far but the elder skeleton was in no hurry to deal with the greedy spider in her doily encrusted bakery. Papyrus was too young at the time to remember a time before she became a major power in the Hotlands—her takeover wasn’t pretty, and one of the reasons why the brothers didn’t stay in New Home when they were orphaned. Back then she openly advertised sweets prepared with the dust of her enemies. Now it was just an unspoken rule to not piss Muffet off.

“hey there fellas, might the two of you be looking for a sweet treat this fine morning?”

Oh hell no. Red grit his teeth when he saw Sans sitting behind a Mean Cream cart, practically sprawled over the top like a half-asleep drunkard. One eyesocket was cracked open and he offered a lethargic wave. 

“c’mon boss,” he grumbled, but Papyrus paused to look at the nuisance. “it’s nobody.” Except that lazy grifter that stole his name. Because two skeletons named Sans was apparently too much for the city to handle! Red still questioned how exactly Sans managed to convince everyone he met that Red preferred being called Red. Then he considered asking why, but he knew why. It was a joke. A con. A power play. The moment the Lady’s protections lifted, Sans was dead.  
“you’re breaking my heart, red,” Sans said, sitting up and laying a hand on his sternum. “whuddabout you, edge, you think i’m nothin’?”

“NO. YOU’RE A LAZY WASTE OF AIR. LITERAL NOTHINGNESS WOULD BE MORE USEFUL THAN YOU, NEYH!” 

Sans laughed as if Papyrus told the best joke he’d heard in his life, “oh man, you’re a treat, edge.”

Deciding the leave the piece of EXP to his insanity, the brothers continued their trek to Muffet’s.

 

“i hate my life.”

Red glowered at the lavish pink decor of MTT Resort. Just like in the Underground, monsters were starving on the streets, and here was Mettaton, living up the high life, catering to high profile clientele of both races. You wanted it, you could get it here. Drugs, booze, weapons, a lady for the night. All you needed was the cash. As long as you weren’t stupid enough to offend the celebrity robot (or accept a ‘loan’ from him), he could make your wildest dreams a reality. And apparently, said robot felt the need to talk business with Don Dreemur, and thus Red found himself playing guard duty alongside Undyne and Papyrus.  
Compared at the “former” Captain of the Royal Guard and her Vice, Red wasn’t much to look at. Don Dreemur was a massive monster that stood taller and broader than any of other monster alive, making even Papyrus look slight in comparison. But next to Red? Heh. He was a pipsqueak. Came up to the Don’s hip. Made people second guess him in a fight. Who’d you fear more: the seven foot skeleton with crimson polearms in either hand, the almost as tall fishlady with shark teeth and a fistful of spears, or the stumpy bag of bones with a pistol? 

Didn’t mean he was harmless.

Harmless monsters don’t act bodyguard for the leader of monsterkind. Their king without a crown. 

“how much longer is asgore gonna let that robot flap his gums?” Red muttered, nursing a drink as he scanned the room for possible threats. He sat at a table away from the others, acting as watch. Undyne and Papyrus stood at either side of the Don as he conversed with Mettaton, the flamboyant hunk of metal getting too handsy with his brother. Having four arms made it easy. So did the fact that Papyrus didn’t do anything to deter his attentions. Urg. Not a subject he liked thinking about too hard.

He drug his gaze to the stage dominating the center of the room. Hard to avoid looking at it. MTT was famous for its entertainment. The band that had been playing was all packed up, readying the stage for the next performance. A comedy act. 

Just as Red resigned himself to a night of boredom, velvet curtains fell aside, revealing the next performer. The glass in his claws cracked. There, standing at a microphone, was Sans. Mettaton’s stylists cleaned his grubby look up, making the skeleton appear halfway classy in all blue. The fuck was he doing here?

“good evening ladies and gents,” Sans began.

Couldn’t Mettaton hold business in an office instead of the middle of his restaurant? That way Red wouldn’t have to be subjected to this atrocity. His black stare drew Sans’ gaze as he went about his routine, telling a story about some brother he didn’t name. The FreeExp winked. 

Angel take him, he was too sober for this shit.

 

“hotcat?”

The evening at MTT went by without a hitch, meaning that Red was free to go drown himself in whiskey at Grillby’s. Speakeasies were quite the fad with the human crowd, and the fire elemental capitalized on every penny possible. It made him and the Dreemurs flush with green and there was little more Grillby liked more than money. Greedy bastard. Heh. At least now Red was capable of paying his tab off every week, no favors needed.

This all said, he had plans when he sat down at the bar and ordered a drink.

None of them included Sans hopping on the stool next to him and wriggling one of those stupid sausages on a bun at him. Grillby didn’t like outside food in his place. Meaning the skeleton smuggled it in. The method of how was extremely questionable given that Sans was only in a long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled to the elbow and trousers. 

“get outta my face!” Red was done. His barely existing patience used up by that robot frisking his brother half the evening. He backhanded the hotcat out of Sans’ phalanges and gripped the front of his shirt. “yer stalkin’ me or some shit? ‘cause that’s just askin’ fer trouble. and trouble fer you is a good time fer me.”

“hey, hey, easy, not lookin’ for a fight,” Sans had the courtesy to look uncomfortable. Finally. Tables turned. “not following you either, i swear. happy accident that we keep crossin’ paths.”

“yer expect me to believe that?”

Sans scratched the back of his head, idly flicking his eyelights towards Grillby. The elemental, of course, stood polishing a glass, unperturbed by the turn of events. 

“what, never seen a guy with more than one job before?” Red scoffed, and Sans made a noise of complaint. “i do a lotta odd jobs for folks. good way to keep the lights on when you’re not packing heat in this city.”

Of course the weakling didn’t carry a gun. How did he survive for so long again? A quick CHECK confirmed that yes, his stats were as pathetic as they were when Sans showed up out of nowhere almost a year ago. All ones. 

“i like to think of myself as a freelancer. never was good at stickin’ one place long. tried the daily grind, it’s boring and i fall asleep.” 

Red dropped him with grunt, shoving Sans with one arm towards the door, “get lost before i change my mind about rearranging yer skull.”

The other skeleton chuckled and shook his head, “no can do, buddy, see, grillby here needs a bus boy. his dishwasher didn’t show up at his shift. and a fire elemental scrubbing plates? it’d be a _dish_ -aster.” Way too proud of himself, Sans made his way into the kitchen, leaving Red agog with disbelief. 

It was time to start digging for answers.


	2. Speaking Blue, Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red recalls meeting Sans for the first time.

Over the past few years, Red settled into an undisturbed routine of running liquor and playing watchdog for the Family. Since Frisk defied the odds, broke the barrier and set monsterkind free, they all found their roles on the Surface. Humans hadn’t changed too much. Still violent and greedy, but since the war, the monsters lost the gentle innocence that made them vulnerable targets before. Sure, one human with the wrong intent could decimate all their population. But only a select few monsters knew about that, and none of them were gonna gab. Not when they found a niche for themselves under the sun. 

Humans weren’t about to hire monsters or treat them fairly. They could barely treat different color humans the same. But they became far more agreeable when they discovered monster alcohol and food. The latter was a panacea for physical injuries, and the former affected humans in spectacular ways, granting them a high with few comparisons. They thought monsters little more than beasts that deserved imprisonment and cages, yet flocked their businesses at odd hours of the night, wanting a taste of magic.

It took time, but eventually, monsters held their own in the crime ridden cesspit they knew as home, establishing protective zones underneath their former monarchs’ rule. The boss and his lady were a pair of nut jobs, but Frisk kept the peace, a pillar of sweetness amongst the blood and dust.

All was established and routine...when an anomaly appeared.

Literally staggering into the middle of a territory spat between the Dreemurs and one of the local human mafias, clueless in ratty shirt sleeves and trousers, wearing pink lady’s slippers of all things. Looked like he’d lost a drunken bet and was still hungover come afternoon. He at least had the decency to appear spooked right then. Eyesockets blacked out as he realized that he just walked into the middle of a hot zone. Red was reloading his pistol when Papyrus took action, launching a blue bone at the skeleton, intending to use gravity magic on his soul to yank him out of reach before one of the humans could shoot him. Unknown monster? Heh. Interrogation time. Hard to ask questions of a fellow you’re sweeping into a bin.

Papyrus’ aim was spot on, but the seemingly frozen skeleton shifted just enough to avoid the attack. The failure to engage the unknown factor caused a domino effect. The odd pause to the fighting renewed, bullets of both kinds raining down. Seeing their Boss’ signature blue attack fly at the skeleton marked him as an enemy to the monsters—his being a monster made him a target to the humans.

Red cussed up a blue streak, knowing full well that Paps wanted this weirdo alive. Not exactly his problem. Fucker deserved to be dusted if he was stupid enough to waltz into the open like that. But Paps would probably make it his problem somehow. Pistol reloaded, he focused on the firefight only to see captain numbskull still standing. No displays of bullet patterns or color magic to explain his survival. Just him being a slippery snake, meandering towards cover as if everyone would forget he was ever there if he could find a box to hide behind. He had enough sense to go towards the monster side, but Undyne was a bloodthirsty bitch, and said fish was between him and the alleyway he was retreating towards. Papyrus was nearby, but since the gunfire began, he was preoccupied with throwing walls of bones up to act as cover while the others prepared their next wave of assault. He had a crimson polearm in a gloved palm, ready to leapt into the fray head on. Damn his brother was cool.

As for Red, well, he was in the alleyway. Pistol reloaded, magic humming in his bones. It thirsted for a fight. For violence. The thrill of the kill. It hounded at the back of his skull like a starving dog, all teeth and desperate thrashing. Since coming to the Surface and gaining more LV, the urges were harder to push down. He was an addict needing a hit, the prospect of relief from the numbing chill...an outlet for the misplaced wrath...it was temptation at its finest.

Better than mustard or whiskey or drugs. Better than the sunshine on his bones for the first time. Better than seeing the midnight sky littered with stars like gemstones on velvet. 

Better than HoPe.

“Nngnaaa!” Undyne’s battle cry cut through the deafening fray. Summoned spears burst out of the ground, impaling the souls of a few unlucky meatbags. One barely missed the shortstack skelton. She wasn’t too happy about that. “Where you think you’re going, PUNK?” An emerald weapon formed in her palm, shape skittering about like bottled static. Her yellowed smile became manic, “Stand your ground or die!” The stranger stiffened, sweat beading on his skull in little cyan beads. It was then that Red noticed his eyelights. Small as they were, they were white. Between them and the color of his passively expressed magic, it was real obvious that this skeleton was a wimp. A low LV loser. Maybe the reason Red never heard of him was because some monster kept their pet on a short leash, hiding their piece of fluff away from the world.

Undyne launched her green attack, one that would pin her target in place and prevent escape, and for the first time since the skeleton appeared, he made a notable effort to dodge. Not the shuffling bullshit from before. He threw his weight sharply to the left, his back now towards Papyrus, the entrance to the allway still in sight. Tiny pinpricks quivered in black, flickering away from Undyne for just long enough to land on Red. His eyelights stilled. And then, he was no longer looking at Red, but instead sidestepping around Undyne, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other held up in a placating gesture.

To the untrained eye he might even fool them into think he was relaxed. Passively bidding for mercy as if this were all just a big confusion. Red saw the cracks in the facade. The mask the skeleton wore too similar to the one he saw in the mirror every day. 

“Oh your dust is mine,” Undyne hissed. She began to close when a bullet grazed her arm, ripping a hole in her grey suit jacket. The thirst for blood and vengeance overturned the desire to pounce on the FreeExp. She whipped around and flung a storm of spears in the direction of the shot, causing the remaining humans to scatter, and breaking what remained of the glass windows in the building across the street. 

“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE DISTRACTED, CAPTAIN,” Papyrus taunted, noticing her injury. He was fury and spite, voice embittered with mockery. His own suit was dusty and bloody, but bore no signs of physical damage.

Undyne chucked a spear at her former Vice, “Pfft, IT’S BOSS NOW!”

“PROVE IT!” he countered, easily ducking out of the way and shooting a look between Red and the strange skeleton. Then he leapt back into the fray, intent on chasing down the humans. Undyne pursued, the pair exchanging loud banter. The FreeExp no longer the focus of any assault. Which he took full advantage of, loitering his way to where Red waited. Only a sheltered dumbass would think that walking right up to Red was a good idea—just because he wasn’t actively trying to shoot didn’t mean that he wasn’t above gaining an easy level.

“hey pal, don’t mind me, just passin’ through,” the skeleton said, stepping into the alleyway. He made to move past. Red snorted. Moron. Unlike his brother or Undyne, he didn’t need a construct to change a soul’s color. Changing the skeleton’s to blue with a flick of his wrist, he held his target in place. That smile was brittle. Up close, Red could see the dark smudges staining underneath his sockets, smell the scent of stale ketchup and smoke. The visible bones were too white and unblemished, teeth flat and straight. Looks like this pet was either lost or recently strayed from home. 

“heh, nice try. be glad boss wants yer alive or yer’d be dead, little runaway.”

“runaway?” the other skeleton chuckled, shifting against the weight of the gravity spell. Testing it. Testing him. “‘fraid i dunno what you mean by that red.”

“name’s sans. sans gaster. don’t forget it.”

Used to monsters getting the hint as soon as he uttered his name, Red was floored when his captive blinked twice and then burst out laughing. Fuck this. Still itching with a need to fight from his singing magic, he summoned a ring of bones, all aimed at his foe’s skull, pistol gripped tight in his phalanges. 

“awe, sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to cause offense, buddy. It’s just...i think i’ll keep calling you red. makes it less confusing that way.”

“the fuck yer playin’ at, level bait?”

He patted his sternum and sauntered closer to Red as if the air wasn’t cold enough with killing intent to choke up Asgore. The fucker had the audacity to somehow avoid Red’s bone bullets as he sent them flying, moving against the blue attack weighing him down. Then he was in front of him hand outstretched, right eyelid closed, “name’s sans. sans the skeleton.”

Red knocked the stranger’s hand away, peppering him with a CHECK. He wasn’t lying. There it was plain for him to see. 

 

Sans  
Lv 1 | HP 1/1 | ATK 1 | DEF 1

 

“woah, rude. what kinda fella checks a guy like that outside of an encounter?” Sans tucked his hands into his pockets. He didn’t look all that offended. “unless, were you check-ing me out?” The shift in tone caught Red off guard. “flattered, really, though unexpected.” Now the FreeExp was mocking him. Guy had to have a death wish. “hate to part so soon after you unveilin’ your deep, unrelentin’ passion for me at first sight...but i’ve places to be. so if you could be a pal and let me go…”

Red yanked Sans closer and pressed the pistol to his chest, right where his soul rested within his ribs. Sans was more pathetic than he originally thought. His stats were worse than Red’s ever were and that single HP was a reminder of how fragile he himself was before gaining LV. He could still beat some sense into him, but killing the skeleton would be laughably easy. There was FreeExp and then there was this moron. A froggit would be worth more.

“yer treadin’ on dangerous ground,” Red growled, increasing the weight of the gravity inflicted on the soul. “lesson one, pal, dun fuck with me. yer master aint here to protect yer. makin’ an enemy of me is makin’ an enemy of both gaster brothers, and the dreemur family. capiche? the dreemurs run this part of town and a smart mouth will git yer killed.”

“i said i didn’t want trouble. just wanna get outta your hair. or lack thereof. c’mon, patty cake, throw a dog a—hhhrk!”

Red shoved Sans into a wall, knocking his skull against the cement, “lesson two, i know how to hurt yer without turnin’ yer to dust.” He was about the elaborate, feed into the aching desire to destroy Sans mentally and emotionally before blasting him to bits...when he heard his brother call out a warning.

“SANS! A HUMAN!”

Both short skeletons whipped their heads around, at the entrance of the alley, a roughed up gangster hurtled towards them with a knife, expression manic. Sans staggered when Red accidently released the blue spell, firing the pistol at the same time Papyrus launched a bone. There was a crack and violent spray of blood. Damn. He was so distracted by Sans that he almost got shanked by some no name lackey. Red examined his coat. Urg. Ruined. Beside him, Sans evidently caught the worst of it. Flecks spattered his skull and soaked the front of his chest. 

“really, these were my favorite shoes.” Red couldn’t help it. He looked down at Sans’ feet to see that those hideous slippers were stained beyond repair. “and this is my only suit…” Right, the FreeExp witnessed a guy’s brains splattered and he worried about his shoes. Wait. Shouldn’t he be traumatized or some shit? Or was his Master the kind to drag home victims and dust them in front of him? Sans’ smile betrayed nothing. The cracks in his facade sealed up with a lethargic apathy. He was tired.

“YOU THERE, PATHETIC SKELETON THAT LOOKS LIKE A HALF-ASSED ATTEMPT AT MIMICKING MY BROTHER,” Papyrus stepped over the corpse to grab Sans. As per his modus operandi, he sidestepped the attempt. “CEASE THIS FOOLISH EVASION BEFORE YOU ANGER THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS.”

Red tried grabbing Sans’ soul again, but there was a miniscule flicker of cyan in Sans’ left eyelight, and the spell failed. Both Gaster brothers reacted to this, using both bones and physical force to try to trap Sans. Papyrus’ bone cage almost worked, but, as if somehow expecting it, he hopped to the side in time. “look, it’s swell meetin’ you both. red, edge. but i really hafta go. i, ah, i didn’t see nuthin’, and this blood? nah, just had a bad ketchup accident. some joker mixed stuff init and the bottle exploded when i opened it. made a real big mess.” At some point, he ended up with his back to the street, Red and Papyrus in the alleway. Paps lunged for him, but Sans walked around the corner out of sight, and when the brothers entered the street, he was gone.

Papyrus snarled in outrage, smacking Red across the back of the skull.

“oi! What wuz that fer, boss?” he fixed his dislodged hat and rubbed the edges of the old, hairline crack his brother made throb with that blow.

“YOUR INATTENTION ALLOWED HIS ESCAPE, AND ALMOST KILLED YOU BOTH. DID YOU AT LEAST GATHER ANY USEFUL INFORMATION?”

“yeah, i’ll fill you in at hq.”

A pause, “WHY DID HE CALL US RED AND EDGE?” His sockets were narrowed, shrewd. No one could call his brother unintelligent. Oblivious, perhaps, but he was a force of nature.

“he thinks he’s a comedian.” Papyrus raised a browbone. “and his name is sans, too.”

“Hmph, that explains his reaction to my calling your name,” he mused at an almost respectable volume. 

Red took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off his face, “speakin’ of that, where’s fish bitch?”

“UNDYNE IS BRINGING IN TWO OF THE HUMANS FOR QUESTIONING.” He crossed his arms, like a pouting child. Ah, she must have caught them first. It was how he was at the alley at that time in the first place. “COME, ONE OF THE MEN SHOULD HAVE A CAR WAITING FOR US. THE DON WILL WANT TO HEAR OF THIS.”

No point in disagreeing. Somebody like that was trouble for the Family. Red in particular had no love for anomalies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Red spots Sans talking to Frisk while investigating (stalking) him.
> 
> Wow. I wasn't expecting so much interest in this spontaneous little fic! Hope people continue to enjoy my exploration of this weird little idea of mine. Feedback and theories are always welcome! If you think I need to add a tag or raise the rating, feel free to mention it. So far it's been nothing worse than what you'd see in an PG-13 action movie...aside from the frequent swearing.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/) if that's your thing.


	3. What the little birdie never mentioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** You know what they say about eavesdroppers.
> 
> Alt. title: So I heard you like hotcats?

“Sans?”

Red stilled at Frisk’s hopeful query. The kid never said his name like that before, as if they missed him. But how did they see him? He was shadowing his wimpy double when he lost sight of him near the Dreemur residence, trying to dig some dirt on the grifter after started showing up everywhere around town. Freelancer. Bah! There had to be more to it than that. Even if he was working three different jobs a day, how in the Angel’s name did he make himself the skeleton to call?

He was about to step out of a shady spot when he noticed movement through the hedges. Red furrowed his sockets and peered into Asgore’s garden, catching sight of Frisk and the other Sans. How the fuck did he get in there? There were traps, guards and shit galore to keep trespassers out so nobody got the bright idea to off the Don or his family. Not even Red was allowed in the garden! Yet here was Sans, standing by the golden flowers like he belonged there. 

“Sans!” Frisk raced over the the rumpled reject and hugged him. Sans maintained his lazy grin, but his body was rigid. Something was making him uncomfortable. At seventeen, Frisk stood taller than Sans, but they were leaner, looking like a waif compared to the broad-boned skeleton they embraced.

Red felt his soul twist as his magic flared with bitter jealousy. He knew the kid for nine years. Protected them on the Surface. Sure, he tried to kill them, but so did every other monster they freed, including the ones they called mom and dad. Yet they were always distant—a polite haven of kindness, advocating that the monsters deserved better than to live in a hole in the ground, no matter how shitty they were to them. With the FreeExp, they were downright affectionate. 

And the fucker wasn’t appreciating the special treatment!

He watched Sans stiffly stroke Frisk’s back, clearing his nonexistent throat when the kid let go. The savior of monsterkind quickly composed themselves, smoothing the front of their button up and straightening their suspenders. 

“Sorry, it’s just, I haven’t seen in you in a long time,” they said.

Sans adjusted his tie, “just a month. been busy, kiddo.”

“I thought you were dead....I thought...”

“awe, kid, toldja not to worry like that. you know better than anyone i can take care of myself.” He buried his hands into his pockets, eyelights dancing anywhere but Frisk’s face.

“I...I thought you hated me. That if you weren’t dead, that you…”

Sans sighed, skull falling forward, “kid, buddy, pal, bucko. i admit, i aint happy, but i don’t hate you.”

Frisk took a step forward, steel in their stance, “But you don’t believe me. Do you?”

In the most serious manner Red ever heard Sans speak in, he replied, “i have no reason to.”

“I thought we were friends!”

“yeah, well, so did i.”

“I never broke my promise.”

“which one?”

“Neither. Please, I keep telling you what happened, what I know. It’s the truth. Why won’t you believe me? I care about you Sans. I’d do anything to make things right if I knew how.”

“a n y t h i n g ?”

There was a stark pause. Frisk and Sans stared at one another, locked in a stalemate. Frisk looked away first, hand pressing to their sternum, above where their soul was housed. Their balled the fabric of their shirt with a white-knuckled grip, the picture of conflicted. Their own determination and beliefs at war within them. But why?

Aware that Frisk couldn’t tell when a monster CHECKed them since they were human, Red peered at their stats, focusing a little harder than normal so he could gain a deeper insight than the basics. He was one of few monsters that could do so outside of encounters.

 

Frisk (HUMAN)  
Lv 1 | HP 20/20 | ATK 10 | DEF 10  
EXP 0  
*Friendly — considers you an ally  
*Threat Level: Low  
*Is frightened of losing him again

 

“I...how am I supposed to answer that? Do you want me to break my promise?” Frisk dropped their hands to their sides.

Sans rubbed closed eye sockets, “no. no i don’t. odds are it wouldn’t fix anything. might make things worse. i don’t what i was thinking.”

The little human’s face softened into that too old for their body way. Like they had lived a lifetime despite seeing less than two decades. They approached Sans again, hand resting on his arm, “You were missing them. I understand, trust me, out of anyone else in this city, in this universe, I get it.”

“tiba honest, kid, i hafta question that,” Frisk gathered one of his hands into both of theirs. They held tight to unsharpened phalanges.

“If it wasn’t because of them, because of you, I don’t think I could have saved anyone.”

“that’s kinda messed up kid,” Sans puffed, shifting the subject, “bit rough around the edges is putting it lightly. yet you’ve made it home.”

“Word around you’re doing the same,” Frisk lifted a brow. “Somebody’s been making Red grumpier than normal. I’d have thought you two would have been best friends. He has this hand buzzer trick just like your whoopie cushion in the hand greeting. Of course his takes off a few points of HP, so it’s probably a good thing you two haven’t have a proper meeting. But when he’s in a good mood, he’s just as bad as you about making jokes. Also, Red, really? I’ve meant to ask, why Red?”

Red was both intrigued and pissed. The first because Frisk was talking about him with the joker, and the second because it was obvious that Sans was pressuring the kid about something. At first he had the itching suspicion that he took advantage of their good nature and youth to—urg—seduce them. It’d make sense for a pet without a master to find someone advantageous to put their lot with, and nobody was gonna dust their savior’s playtoy. But it quickly became obvious that there was something else, possibly worse going on. Talk of promises, of making things right...vague allusions to a shared past that made no sense. Like they met before they freed all the underground at nine years old.

This guy had to be more manipulative than he thought!

“what? just takin’ inspiration from ol’ fluffybuns. snowdin’s snowy, hotland’s hot, and red is red.” Sans shrugged, phalanges curling loosely around Frisk’s fingers. No gag evident on his palm. “as for makin’ him more grumpy. didn’t realize that had an off feature. every time he sees me he’s in a mood. it’s kinda hilarious. he fluffs up like a bird and cusses till he’s red in the face. heh. think i broke him the day i helped grillbz wash dishes. turned into a cherry and stormed off like i just told him i wanted to lick ketchup off his, er...” He paused, the tiniest hint of cyan rising across his face. 

Frisk was grinning wildly now, eyebrows wagging, “Oooh, do tell.”

“uh-uh. nope. no can do kiddo.”

“Pfft. You’re so stuffy. I’ve heard worse than a dirty joke from the other Sans. Caught him one day after he’d been drinking about, huh, about around when you arrived. Funny timing on that. Anyway, caught him after he’d been drinking, he was talking to mom, and it was one of the best knock knock jokes sessions I’ve ever heard. Talk about raunc—”

Sans waved a hand in Frisk’s face, sockets screwed shut, “you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m seventeen,” they rolled their eyes. “I also know how babies are made. Would ya like me to—”

“frisk!”

Frisk burst out laughing and pulled Sans into another hug. This time, Sans participated, blue-faced, but more relaxed than before. After a moment, they pressed their lips close to the side of Sans’ skull and said, “So, what is this about licking ketchup off Red?” The skeleton hid his face in Frisk’s shoulder.

“i’d think they’d corrupted you, but you were always this way,” he said, earning a snicker from the little human. “who asks someone to be their mom just so they can call them a ‘hot goat momma?’”

“Toriel is a hot goat momma though, those hips don’t lie.”

Sans pinched Frisk’s arm, earning another spatter of giggles, “that sounds like a reference to something.”

“Song. Don’t think they know who Shakira is here.”

Sans hummed in agreement, “bit outdated here, yeah. yet…”

“Yet things are weirdly similar as much as they are different?”

"bingo. got it in one.”

The pair fell quiet, leaving Red with his thoughts. Apparently Sans wasn’t the only one with secrets. Red just wished he could jam the pieces together to make a full picture, because at the moment, he felt like someone just dumped a dozen boxes of jigsaws at his feet and told him to solve them in order from smallest to largest. The ‘in’ with the Dreemurs was obviously Frisk, but how did they know each other. Who were they talking about? Where were they talking about? WHEN were they talking about? He followed Frisk during their entire journey Underground. Watched them the whole time. Unless there was a Core-sized gap in his memory…

Red’s mental gears made a screeching noise.

Memories left buried ebbed to the front of his skull. His old man had a few theories about what would happen if the Core ever overloaded and blew the Underground to bits. Something about tearing a rift in the Void, and possibly wiping the existence of their entire timeline from the multiverse. All iterations of their ‘branch’ would be obliterated...or, and it was a tentative, obsessively calculated exception, a temporal ‘loop’ of a kind would form, throwing them into an unspecified moment in history, creating a paradox that would collapse in on itself. 

Dings had a few ideas on how to harness this on a smaller scale, succeeding in creating a machine to monitor their ‘timeline’ for anomalies before he croaked. According to the schematics it was supposed to be some breed of time machine. Planned on making a device that could take them back in time before the barrier was created. Though there were thick documents about how a minute miscalculation could have highly variable results, which included erasing the user from reality to throwing them into a different branch of the timeline. 

Quantum physics wasn’t exactly Red’s specialty. He was more the physical type, better at engineering when he bothered with that science bullshit. He quit it when his old man died, falling (okay, he jumped) into the Core of all things, ranting about how he would save them. Sans had front row tickets to the fiasco. Being the next in line for that job wasn’t on his agenda if it meant going crazier than the king. Dings was brilliant, but it was clear in those final years that he had cracked more than his skull.

Now he wished he knew more about how that all worked. The last time he bothered looking at the reading on that machine he was pretty sure it was broken. For a few years before Frisk fell Underground, the numbers output were perpetual spaghetti. New loops forming constantly in an impossible rate. Gave him a real existential crisis until he stopped checking the readings, started getting paranoid and had dreams about the pointlessness of choice, ‘cause some anomaly was playing god. If it were real, it meant that regardless of the decisions he made, that it was possible that something out there was fucking around with his life until he did what they wanted. Manipulating him.

He had no great love for Flowey when Frisk came out of the Ruins with him potted in a boot. A lingering result of his years letting that machine get to his head. A lot of his dreams held fuzzy mentions of talking flowers. Hated Waterfall for a long time too. Stupid Echo Flowers.

Red shook his head, forcing himself to dismiss the idea of alternate timelines from his thoughts. Nothing came from that research except history forgetting their most industrious royal scientist. There was an easier explanation. One that required far less factors than what just came to mind. Occam's Razor and all that. Maybe Sans was a native of the Ruins, his existence kept secret because Toriel liked having a untouched piece of fluff to coddle when she didn’t have a kid to obsess over. Or maybe there were other barriers around the world, and this wasn’t the first one that Frisk helped free. 

As his contemplations drifted, as did the urgency that had struck him. Unless he thought hard about thinking about his old man's research, it slipped from his mind, like trying to hold an ice cube in his hands once it melted into water. There were some days, like all the Underground, he forgot his own father's name, finding no oddity in it until something Paps did or Alphys said, made him remember.

“hey, whatcha doing out here?”

The sound of Sans’ voice less than a foot from him made Red jump, instinctively throwing a bone dagger over his shoulder. Slick avoided it. “my job to protect the family and yer real touchy with a certain member of said family.”

“they hugged me is all,” Sans said.

What was he thinking about so hard that he failed to notice someone approaching? Oh, yeah, how he could use this gossipy shit to fuck with Sans next time they saw each other…right? “yer wuz gettin’ all giggly with frisk. better keep yer mitts offa them.”

“someone sounds jealous.”

Red narrowed his sockets. For as confident as Sans acted when he was harassing Red, he got real flustered when Frisk started getting suggestive. “says the skeleton who was talkin’ ‘bout licking ketchup off my—” Sans yelped. Red grinned at this discovery. “—hotcat.”

“i never said that!”

“yer sure? pretty sure i heard all ‘bout how yer wanted to do all sorts a naughty things with me.”

“Now you're messin’ with me.” At this point, Sans jammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled off, shoulders bent in what was either humiliation or defeat, grumbling about how Red must have shoddy hearing. Frisk was right. Sans was stuffy. Could dish it out but couldn’t take it. Today was quite a day of discovery. 

Before he could follow after Sans and continue his (not) stalking, he heard a chuckle through the hedge.

“You should be nicer to him, Red,” Frisk said.

“why? the bastard needs to learn his place. finally have some ammo.”

They hummed, “Planning on flirting him into submission? I’ll admit, that strategy worked wonders on your brother. He still thinks I’m pining after him and informs me on the regular that I will never meet anyone as great as himself, but to not allow myself to wallow in my broken heartedness.”

“sans is right, yer were a strange kid.”

“And you’re an eavesdropper.” Silence. It drew thick between them until Frisk continued, in a deadly serious voice that echoed the one the FreeExp used earlier, “Sans is a friend. I believe my mother has informed you that no harm is to come to him from within the Family. I would advise you to avoid accidents like this in the future.”

“er...right. accident. sorry, boss.” Sweat beaded on Red’s skull. As the Dreemer heir, they could make his life very short if they decided he was a threat. But Frisk was a pacifist by nature. They wouldn’t do anything to bring harm to him...right? Fuck, he thought he left this second-guessing shit behind. It was a new life Aboveground. Of all the people to be afraid of, it wasn’t Frisk. Them and their peaceful, whiny flower friend were the least dangerous things to rise to the Surface.

“Hm. Is it true he recently offered you mustard on a fresh-cooked weiner?” Frisk said suggestively, permitting the weight of the conversation to lift. Red groaned at the hotcat incident. It was funny when he was making Sans squirm, but reliving it in front of Frisk wasn’t exactly a good time. “How scandalous. Tell me more.”

Somehow, Red ended up talking to Frisk until it was time for them to go inside for dinner. They might be human and have shitty taste in friends, but...they were certainly Lady Dreemur’s kid. Puns and knock-knock jokes slipped into their conversation, until they were both firing them off at one another in a competitive spree through the hedge. He’d do the same thing at the Ruin’s door, when Toriel was just a faceless voice, and the both of them were more than a little lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have cover art on my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/)! Thank you everyone for your continued support.
> 
> Also, did I really make that many "hotcat" jokes? Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> Now, prompts. General prompts. I'm open to them for this fic. Though how they are put into use may not be what you expect. But that's what makes them fun~


	4. Lickers Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** That’s not how you flirt, Red.
> 
> **Alt. Title:** I believe that’s what you call an oral fixation

“hotcat?”

Sans leaned against the cart, grill full of ‘dogs and ‘cats. The lunch rush hadn’t started, which meant the streets were mostly empty. Red planned on taking full advantage of this serendipitous moment to enact revenge on the annoyance plaguing his life. Sneering, he strolled up to the part-time vendor, who proffered a hot water sausage on a bun in one hand. Sans raised both brow bones, straightening up when Red didn’t bombard him with insults.

“gonna finally try a hotcat after all this time?” he asked. Surprise faded into that lethargic audacity, lids resting heavy over sockets. “couldn’t resist it’s adorable face forever. or were you overcome by my obvious charm?” At Red’s nod, Sans grabbed a glass bottle full of mustard and tipped it over top. The observant little shit figured out his love of the yellow condiment somewhere over the past year and used that knowledge to try to peddle off whatever food he was selling, “anything else on your ‘cat?” 

“nah, fork it over,” Red tossed a scattering of coins onto the cart, swiping the napkin cradled snack. Triumph etched at the edges of the comedian's expression. Heh. Time to kill it. “now what was it you and frisk talked ‘bout? sumthin’ to do wit hotcats.” Sans’ permanent grin dipped at the corners, browbones creeping inward. White eyelights fidgeted between Red and the 'cat.

“heh. they're my specialty. aint nobody who can cook a 'dog or ‘cat like me,” he said, keeping with the professional persona as he pointedly misinterpreted what Red hinted. “the little ears i giv’em are just the _cat’s meow_. frisk loves 'em. especially with all the fixins. when we _ketchup_ they sometimes _mustard_ up the courage to ask me for a few to _relish_.” 

“really?” Red drew out the word long, tilting his weight into casual repose. One polished shoe tapping. “that good huh?”

“ah, yep.” Sans rubbed the back of his skull, free hand seeking refuge in a pocket.

“hm. lemme ask yer a question 'fore i go. how do yer like yer hotcats?”

Sans looked Red dead in the eyesockets and promptly assembled the most nauseating looking abomination capable of being crafted at the food cart. It was 1 part bun, 1 part hot dog and 12 parts ketchup. The sickly sweet condiment dripped through his phalanges and soaked through the bread, the bun unable to hold the sheer amount dumped on top. They held a stare, air charged with unspoken challenge, and slowly, Sans parted his teeth to consume the atrocity.

This was too perfect. Even better than plan A.

Red grabbed the other skeleton's wrist, stilling him, and pulled Sans uncomfortably against the cart. The FreeExp made a noise of complaint, “buddy, i know my cookin’ is good, but you got your own. you don't even like ketchup.” No struggling. No protest aside from the delayed consumption of the 'dog. When Red pulled a little harder, Sans rolled his eyelights, and deadpanned, “oh no. you got me. whatever will you do?” He wriggled his brows, leaning closer so that he was essentially laying on top of the cart, “planning on giving me a nice, big...tip?” He was getting something alright. A dose of revenge.

Evidently proud of himself, Sans chuckled, feet swinging. Somewhere he managed to find another hideous pair of pink ladies slippers. These were less fuzzy than the last, but no less offensive to the eyes. He pushed around the coins Red threw down earlier with a fingertip, “mhm, short, silent and flush with green, just my type.” He made to draw his arm back but Red held fast, showing off every tooth in a malevolent grin. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Sans’ skull. Ketchup leaked onto Red's fist.

Wordlessly, because if he spoke he'd ruin this glorious look of confusion, Red lowered his teeth to the dripping monstrosity, kept his eyelights fixed on Sans’ and—

“dude, what the fuck?”

—licked off a glob of ketchup. 

The look on the FreeExp’s face was priceless, worth enduring the off putting taste. He needed to preserve this moment with a photo. Sans’ skull was ultramarine, magic running in rivulets as he broke into a sweat, his eyelights barely there pinpricks quivering in widened sockets. Those harmless, flat teeth grit together, air whistling past his nasal bone as his body continued to take in much needed oxygen. Red could feel the the hum of Sans’ soul beat, magic scarcely contained as it rose flush to the surface, peeking through joints. Warm. Sans was warm. Lacking the LV that calcified the soul and numbed it with perceivable cold, his stirred magic radiated the natural heat of kindness, love and compassion, traits that which composed a monster above all else.

A rarity in this world. It was why children were precious. Why some of the more prosperous monsters took to greedily sheltering those with low LV. This warmth...a reminder of long ago days when there were greater joys in life than getting high off violence. Every instinct clamored to either squeeze the bones captured in his claws, to snuff out the weakling at his mercy, or to hide it away, keep if safe to revel in when the chill from within was too much to bear.

He pushed down errant thoughts. He hadn’t come here to get touchy-feely with Sans’ magic.

Red cleaned off the last of the ketchup from pointed teeth with a snaking swipe of his conjured tongue. Seeing it freaked out humans. Couldn’t get it through their peabrains that monster bodies were literally shells projected by their soul. Unlike actual corpses, eyelights to see and tongues to taste were quite feasible. Hell, it was possible for a monster to change physical form if they experienced a revelation or trauma great enough to affect the harmony within the soul.

“now what was it yer wanted me to do?” Red mused aloud, noting that Sans wasn’t struggling. Perhaps too shocked to move. What hole did he live in to be so conservative? The Dreemurs and his brother were ‘proper’ and avoided certain kinds of crudeness, but they wouldn’t break a screw if someone licked their food. The perpetrators face might be broken, though. Even Frisk would likely just laugh it off once they were done being weirded out. “sumthin’ ‘bout lickin’ a ketchup off a hotcat.”

“uh.” Mental processes not quite functional. “that’s, uh, that was mine. and you just...”

Red snickered, whelp, time to see if he could cash in on a different reaction. He chomped down on the 'dog, cleaving it in half with an exaggerated bite. Chewing, Red leaned back, appreciating how Sans’ embarrassment nosedived into mild horror. He winced and Red released him the moment he shifted away. “wut? never ‘ear ‘bout licking things to claim 'em as yers? lickers keepers.” Urg. How did Sans stomach this stuff? He banished his tongue the moment the acidic tang of tomato crashed into it. Years of his brother learning to cook lasagna and failing ruined his capacity to tolerate large amounts of anything red and saucy.

“sumthin’ botherin’ yer?” Red asked, flexing his reddened phalanges. He flicked his hand, succeeding in dislodging almost none of the condiment. “that expression on yer face tells me yer mighta saw sumthin’ yer like.” His grin became wolfish. Sans looked between the half-eaten 'dog, Red's face and his hand. Oooh. Interesting. He might not like the punk, but damn this was fun. Lifting the cooling hotcat he actually bought to his fangs, Red leisurely demolished it, making a point of clicking his teeth together with each bite. It was no less fun when Sans glanced off, sliding back onto his side of the cart, still idling with the 'dog.

He took the last bite with a degree of actual enjoyment (fuck, they were tasty) when Sans found his voice.

“so uh, you like your hotcat?” he rasped. You'd have thought Red had pinned him to the cart and kissed him with that voice. So easy. Why had he never thought of doing this before? Okay, well, maybe he didn't because he thought the skeleton was a consummate flirt and would take risque jokes in stride. He acted like nothing bothered him. Like he was in control. That the world could be burning down around him and he'd just take a jolly stroll down to the nearest lake so he could wait it out.

“it's edible,” Red said, wriggling his phalanges at Sans. “i think i remembered. yers wanna lick ketchup offa me. How ‘bout yer clean up the mess yer made?”

The fading blue deepened and Sans covered his sockets with his unoccupied hand, “is this my life right now? i can't believe frisk of all people corrupted you.”

“didn't hear a no.”

“i’m gonna fill all of grillby's mustard bottles with ketchup,” he muttered. “i'll tell frisk to loosen the lids on the condiments when you’re in the house. i'll put a buzzer on edge's car door handle and blame you.”

“yer shitty at this plottin’ vengeance thing. try ‘gain, but this time, say it in yer head and not aloud.” Red, whether through mercy or a desire to no longer be sticky, cleaned off his hand with a handkerchief. “whelp, i’ve got places to be. can’t piss around ‘ere all day watchin’ yer turn funny colors. as hilarious as that would be.” Flipping Sans the bird, he strode off, a skip to his step. 

Unfortunately for Sans, Red decided to include him in his daily routine.

When he wasn’t on a job or too hungover to move, he dropped by the hotdog stand or the mean cream cart. One would think the other skeleton would grow a thicker skin (heh) but a couple inappropriate jokes or innuendos and he rivaled the darkest of sapphires. His brother berated him for wasting time whenever they were together and Red decided to stop and share some of his favorite knock knock jokes about knockers. But the results were worth getting smacked by Paps. Lady Dreemur taught him the one that had Sans covering his face and groaning, “not in front of edge, please.”

Why telling dirty jokes around Papyrus specifically made Sans’ reaction worse, Red had no idea, but he was so going to capitalize on that in the future.

 

“i know you’re deeply attracted to me and all, love at first sight in the middle of a fire fight, but uh, why are you doin’ this?” Sans asked after about a week of Red’s questionable flirting. The FreeExp curled his hands as Red bit a blue ice pop in half, wooden stick included. Mmm, chewy. “or better question, did frisk put you up to this?”

“don’ believe i suddenly fell fer yer after gazin’ on yer standin’ in a garden?” Browbones wriggled salaciously as he shoved the rest of the popsicle in his mouth, crushing it to bits with audible cracks and pops. “i mean, yer wuz talkin’ to the don’s kid, all touchy and shit. mebbe i got a jealous streak and couldn’t keep my feelin’ hid no longer.” Red tossed a coin onto the cart and waggled a hand. Sans sighed and fished out another popsicle.

“you’re gonna hafta settle for cherry. we’re outta berry-flavored. someone’s eatin’ them all ‘fore the bunny in charge can make more of ‘em.” Red shrugged and took the treat. One crimson eyelight skimmed over the comedian. He wasn’t as reactive as normal. His shoulders were slumped lower than usual, stained burned dark under his sockets. The level bait always looked shabby, probably wore his clothes to bed and bathed just often enough to meet basic hygiene codes. But today, he looked wearier than he had for the past year. Beyond running on empty. He was holding up pretty good for someone who probably hadn’t slept for a couple days. Red knew what that was like. Being so practiced at being tired that he could pretend at functioning until he blacked out in the middle of dinner, or while walking up the stairs, or when sitting too long at work.

“yer really wanna know why i’m doin’ this? thought it was obvious.” Red watched the popsicle drip in the afternoon heat. “payback fer yer stalkin’, mouthy bullshit, knowin’ full well yer wuz pissin’ me off. yeah, i heard you and frisk talkin’ ‘bout me. yer thought it was funny to fuck with me, and yer a looney that don’t back off when someone points a gun at yer head.” He jabbed the pop towards Sans, who, of course, didn’t seem to care that Red was out for revenge. Freak. “frisk may of thought it was funny too.” Chuckling, he held the popsicle out towards Sans, eyelights gleaming, “here, i’m inna good mood. i’ll even make it up to yer since this has been the funniest damned week of my life. go on, give it a lick. get yer revenge fer the hotcat.”

On an average day, Red was certain that Sans would take the gesture in stride. Make a comment about the color of the pop to try to regain control of the situation, or heat up in embarrassment as he attempted to continue on like nothing happened. Hell, the aforementioned hotcat incident was far more vulgar than waving an untouched cherry popsicle around. But today, well, today was not an average day. 

“sorry to hear that murderin’ kids and kickin’ puppies aint tickling your funny bone anymore.”

What. The. Fuck. 

Self-destructive idiot didn’t have the capacity to filter what would irritate a monster and what would make them go for his throat. Red stopped waving the popsicle, anger freezing through his veins. All trace of humor fled, “the fuck yer just say, level bait?” Sans didn’t look angry. Beneath the apathy, he could sense the condemnation. “who the fuck do yer think yer are, yer judgemental prick? yer know nuthin’.”

“nuthin’ huh? heh. guess you’re right. who am i to judge the guy who kept threatenin’ to blast my teeth out? the guy with so much lv that he’s hardly a monster anymore. heh. nuthin’.” Sans sidestepped the popsicle lobbed at his head, otherwise standing his ground. Did Sans prefer him pissed off and looking for a fight? Here Red was being fucking halfway decent, trying to lighten the mood, and the fucker drops a bomb like that.

Red hurt a lot of people in his life. Monster and human. He was a jackass to his brother because he resented being left to raise him when their father dusted. They were still picking up the pieces of that shitshow. He dusted monsters for the joy of it more than once. He’s killed on Don Dreemur’s command, often kidnapping and interrogating them first. He tried to kill Frisk multiple times on their trip through the underground, punishing them for their kindness and mercy, unaware that it was those very things that would save Asgore from his blood-laden grief. He was a shitty, god-awful fuck up.

But fuck Sans and his attitude. 

Since coming to the surface, Red tried to make shit right where he could. He worked with his brother, protected Frisk and was a good little guard dog that didn’t break every bone in Sans’ body when ordered to keep his claws off. 

The creak of metal warned that he was gripping the edge of the cart too hard. Tips denting the surface. It would be so easy to pull a blaster from the void right now. To forget his promise in a haze of the violent high.

“heh. you gonna do it finally?”

Heat permeated the cold, baited the ice. A tiny, distant part of Red’s mind latched onto this oddity, traced the warmth that shouldn’t be this close to his soul. It was magic. Sans’ magic. Subtle, soft and snaking. The chill balked at its presence, unwilling to challenge or mingle. Danger, danger, danger. Red inhaled sharply. Was that Sans’ intent? Was the idiot threatening him? Even if he was, why was it working? 

Before he could fully comprehend the entirety of the situation—Sans’ deliberate provocation and the obvious bluff that was succeeding in tempering his rage—there was a loud BANG. In the distance, a woman screamed. Dogs barked. A man shouted to run and hide. In front of him, Sans’ eyesockets were saucers, void of light. He was staring at Red’s chest. Looking down, he saw what had the FreeExp catching flies with his gob. 

Red. Lots of red. Monsters like them weren’t supposed to bleed red. They weren’t supposed to bleed at all. Papyrus didn’t. But he was a weird skeleton monster. He did bleed. It was this ‘blood’ that he wasn’t supposed to have that likely played into why he wasn’t dust. His body could take far more damage than his soul, especially when he was numbed out by his LV and glutted on magical food. However, even he wasn’t immune to true malicious intent. A kid with a stick could turn him to pretty glitter on the ground if they wanted him dead. That is why he knew the moment the bullet lodged into his ribs, that he wasn’t the target of the shot. Just the unlucky sucker in the way. 

“well fuck,” he mumbled, cupping a palm over the growing stain. That shot might not have killed him, but he was in no shape to do more than bleed out on the ground.

He could picture better ways to end this week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Chapter:** Near death experiences are great bonding moments
> 
> Check out the covers for this fic on my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/%22). Yep, covers. The [original version](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/178625813272/smoke-in-the-mirror-cover-art-4-versions) and the [alternate version](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/178707902327/smoke-in-the-mirror-alt-cover-art-ver-hotcats%22) called 'Hot Cats and Pistols' for obvious reasons. I've had unexpected arting time.
> 
> Anyway~ Prompts are still open for this fic, feel free to send them my way. You may see them here, though how I approach them may be a little different than expected. ^_- Feedback, theories and such are always welcome. And I think's it's official, this is becoming a slowburn romcom. How did it become a slowburn romcom?


	5. We're all damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans has issues. Red just wants to stop bleeding. They manage.

Dirt and cement rose to greet Red as presumed. He braced himself for the impact, unable to keep on his feet or salvage a thread of dignity in the seconds that chased the unexpected gunshot wound. If he didn’t lose consciousness, he’d crawl until he found somewhere safer than in front of the FreeExp’s mean cream stand. The alternative wasn’t pretty. There were too many people out there who’d jump at the chance to finish him off if they found him blacked out on the sidewalk.

The last thing he expected was for blue magic to grip his soul, hot and leaden, like the core of his entire being was grasped in a molten vice. Blue magic wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Then again, when had his frozen, calcified soul ever experienced the touch of someone with such low LV? It would be so easy for Sans to destroy him like this, with only 1 HP left, all he needed was the right intent for the heat of his magic to crack Red apart. He was close, the pressure verging on shattering, weighty with an indecipherable riot of fear, condemnation and something else. They both knew that Red’s life was in Sans’ control. When no pain came, despite the near overwhelming intensity of the experience, his mind skittered briefly to a primal, singular desire. A twisted want for more than this indirect, impersonal grope—hands cupping together, melting the cold away, casting judgement and finding him redeemable. Quickly as it came, the thought vanished, Sans yanking Red over the cart with a sharp flick of his wrist. He ducked, dragging Red with him to the ground on the other side.

“wuz wit yer?” Red slurred. Clawed hands curled into the front of his own suit, a fruitless attempt to hold in what he shouldn’t be able to bleed out. “yer hate me.” Sans was usually bottled up, helpless and nonthreatening. Today he made it evident that he could only pretend at the grinning fool for so long before he slipped. This city brought the worst out of everyone. The sheltered pet revealed his teeth—though if Red were less sensitive to intent, he might not have realized how thin a line he walked between salvation and dusting. His keen judgement and observation skills were crucial in keeping alive this long. And those skills assured him that Sans, while not an active threat, had the capacity to become one. 

BANG!

A bullet ripped into the metal by Red’s skull. Sans made a noise between a whine and a hiss, and dragged Red closer. They were exposed on all sides but one. Hiding here wouldn’t keep them safe long. “why yer holdin’ onto me? jus’ run, level bait.” Sans was good at escaping. If he could waltz through a firefight between two rival mafias, he could dodge a trigger happy lone gunman. Dull eyelights dropped to his chest. Once pale phalanges were encrusted in scarlet. Blood seeped into every chip and crack, pooled between flushed joints. Injury jostled by the blue magic, it leaked more freely. Urg. This stuff needed to stay on the inside. Sans, of course, ignored him and practically held him in his lap, “fuckin’ hell. quit it. yer hurtin’ me worse.”

“i’m thinkin’.”

“don’ think, run! fer fucks sake, yer have a death wish?”

The body behind him stiffened. “it doesn’t matter. none of this matters,” he said, words almost lost in how quietly Sans spoke. Giving him time to think was apparently a bad idea. The tension in the other skeleton’s body was fading into shivers, limbs loosening around him. “i couldn’t save them. i couldn’t stop them. no choice i make, makes a difference in the end, does it?”

“great time to have a existential crisis, pal.” Red grumbled, vision starting to blot out. 

Footsteps. Both skeletons went mute. They were out of time. Sans, his sockets still black pits of nothing, drew in a rattling breath. And began to laugh. He made no noise, but the manic rise and fall of his chest, and the huff escaping his nonexistent lungs were evidence enough. He’d lost it. First he decided to gut Red with words, and now he was sitting on the ground, cuddling up to the monster he insulted, gettin’ all giggly about the guy with a gun coming around to finish them off. Death wish was putting this mildly. He was suicidal and merrily dragging Red along for his jump off the cliff. 

Sans continued to mutter, muffled by Red’s coat.

Suddenly, the air heated up, abuzz with Sans’ magic, as he leapt to his feet, hauling Red up by the soul. There was a shout and a crash as the comedian-having-a-meltdown got his shit together enough to kick the cart into the approaching shooter. 

The combination of sudden movement and noise was enough to tip Red into the swallowing black of unconsciousness. 

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

_“Do you even care?”_

_“wha’?”_

_“You drink yourself stupid every night, and force me to drag you home from that grease pit. You could die, Sans.”_

_Bleary eyelights chased the rippling form of his little brother. He was tall. When did he get tall? Still in stripes but he towered over him, scrawny but strong, chips missing from his ulna, a reminder of where he failed and kept failing his duty as an older brother. He didn’t want to be Papyrus’ provider and guardian. They both knew it. It wasn’t a secret. But Sans found a way to get a roof over their head and put food on the table, and Paps kept dragging him out of the bar before someone got it in their head to dust him (before Sans decided it was a good idea to just do the dusting himself)._

_“would that be a bad thing?"_

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

_Lines upon lines. Looping, twisting, folding. These readings couldn’t be right. If they were, it meant that this day happened no less than a dozen times. After so long of trudging along in an unbroken path, why now would the machine show anything different?_

 _That night, Sans dreamt of flowers and his brother’s scarf floating in one the murky pools in Waterfall._

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

_“doc, yer sure this is normal?”_

_A slim vial filled with red gleamed in his father’s hand. Sans glanced at his arm, bandaged tight to stop whatever THAT was from leaking out. He had been rummaging through a supply closet for scrap to build with, when a tremor shook the Underground and sent a box crashing down on top of him. Given his pitiful HP, the box could have (should have) killed him when it cracked his arm nearly in half. Instead Sans remained painfully conscious, scarlet gushing everywhere. The shock of the event left him stunned, found on the floor by chance by a passing lab assistant._

_At least he now knew that he was tougher than his stats looked._

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

_Humans bleed red, Sans noted idly, sweat beading down his skull. Frisk stood across from him in the Judgement Hall, worn and bruised, one hand pressed against their arm. A couple hits to the soul and this fight would be over. But the kid kept dodging, his bullets, at best, striking their body. He was pretty sure humans couldn’t survive a hit to the heart or brain or any number of major organs. They were pretty vulnerable in certain fleshy areas. But their soul was a beacon, flooding their Encounter with its presence._

_Could one win a fight with a creature of pure determination?_

_What would have been left of the Underground if they chose Fight instead of Mercy?_

_“...Sans?”_

_He summoned a dozen blasters from the void, “why do you keep tryin’, kid? it’s kill or be killed. this fight aint stoppin’ until one of us is dead.”_

_He wondered why he bothered fighting, thinking of those tangled timelines he once watched skip and twist together. He wondered...he wondered if he should give up. He’d either die or see the sun. Trying was...it was too hard._

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

Red shifted. Droplets of cold peppered his teeth and face. Rain? No, it wasn’t water. It tasted like...like cherry? Fighting through the throbbing in his skull, he blinked awake, greeted by the sight of a half-melted popsicle held over his head. At the other end of the frozen treat was Sans, skull bowed, breathing steady in a manner that resembled sleep. 

“you’re awake.” Of course he wasn’t actually asleep. That would be too convenient. “don’t sit up.” Sans shoved the popsicle closer to Red’s teeth. “eat.” 

Half of him protested the very idea of obeying. The FreeExp had no business either making demands or feeding him like this, but his body demanded the sustenance. Reaching up with his claws, he took the pop and jammed it between his teeth, stick and all. Cracks and crunches filled the silence until the treat dissolved in his magic. Red dared move more then, uncomfortably sticky and sore, but his ribs didn’t scream in agony. They were in what was best described as a bolt hole. Crammed into the space between two buildings, bricks and boards and other debris acting as both camouflage and shelter. A few empty jars sat in a corner and the floor was littered with rags, as if someone had attempted to make it more habitable. There was enough space for one person to fit comfortably, but for two, it was a cramped. Red took up most the floor, laid out on his back, head propped up by a wad of cloth, while Sans sat flush against a wall, another pop held in his hand.

It looked to be a cream flavored and was in perfect shape.

“the fuck yer git dat?” Red slurred, more fascinated by the unmelted treat than the fact they were stashed away in a rat trap that reeked of sweat and piss.

Sans offered it to Red, head tilted up, a weak facade in place, “trade secret.” If he looked bad earlier, he was worse now. The agitated insomniac had evolved into a full-formed druggie in the middle of a bad withdrawal. Uncaring whether Sans liked it or not, Red aimed a CHECK at the other skeleton.

 

Sans  
Lv 1 | HP: ??? | ATK: ??? | DEF: ???  
EXP ???  
*Status: ???  
*Threat Level: ???  
*???

 

“that’s still rude, buddy,” Sans waved the pop. “at least buy me dinner before you go lookin’ at my soul like that. ‘fraid i don’t consider getting shot at a first date.”

“wuts wrong wit yer stats?” Red shoved the other skeleton’s hand out of the way, sitting up despite the other’s warning. The first popsicle was enough of a debt, he didn’t need to take more food from him on top of everything else. Shit, the fact he didn’t leave him to bleed out in the park made his whole body itch with both resentment and humiliation. Grateful was a word used when you knew where your stood with someone who didn’t dust you when they had the chance and the motivation.

“dunno what you mean, they’re all ones, same as always,” he said. “now eat the popsicle before it melts. i can’t heal for nuthin’ so monster food is your best bet until i can get you to tori or pa—uh—edge.”

“how many more yer got?” Red allowed the subject to shift for the moment. 

“this is the last one. i grabbed a _femur_ but i used’em up on gettin’ you stable. a’least this stuff was easy to get in your mouth, otherwise you’d be _creamed_.”

“surprised yer grabbed any at all.” Or wasted them on Red when he obviously needed the energy himself. Forget sleep, when was the last time this asshole ate? Magical exhaustion was deadly to a skeleton. Was this some weird ploy? Emphasizing how weak and vulnerable he made himself by choosing to take care of Red instead of saving his own coccyx. 

“i’ve got my ways,” Sans smoothed a hand over his vest. Nonchalant. Acting as if saving and then fixing up people he obviously hated was a thing he did on the regular. As if he and Red weren’t at one another’s throats before. As if he hadn’t saved Red’s life. Red snatched his wrist, single rivulet dripping from the pop onto their phalanges. Huh, his hands were clean. Not even a spec of dried blood in the crevices of battered bones. “said it was yours. no need to get handsy.”

Red shoved the pop towards Sans’ teeth, “dunno what yer game is, but fuck off. eat the stupid thing yerself before yer fall apart.”

“ _sweet_ of you, but i’m not hungry.”

“eat it ‘fore i shove it so far up yer pelvis you shit dairy fer a week.”

“don’t you mean you’d shove it up my _dairy_ -ere? heh. you’ll definitely need to buy me dinner first. at least twice. i’m not the kind of skeleton to let anyone get familiar on the first date.”

“and i’m not the kind of skeleton that racks up debts to suicidal former-pets without knowing the fuck he thinks he’s gaining from it!” Red snarled, temper flaring, injury pulsing. Okay, he still had a hole in him. Goooood to know. Weak as he was, he could still overpower the exhausted FreeExp, who sat there unresisting as Red pressed the pop to Sans’ teeth. He held those pearly bones tight, not releasing his grip until the entirety of the treat vanished. 

Red fell back, exhausted. Angel above, this was a long day. It was only going to get longer too. Had to drag his ass to Don Dreemur to report the incident, then get home so Papyrus could scold him for his negligence. But before all that, he needed to sort out this THING with Sans.

“so. what do yer want? be straight with me, don’t pull any of yer avoidant bullshit. then we can get outta this hole and yer can get back to actin’ like yer not two cents short of a buck.”

Sans wiped his hand on one of the rags, “dunno what you mean, i’m not lookin’ for anythin’ outta you. jus’ helpin’. compassion and all that jazz. m’not soulless.” 

“yer ruined yer suit, betcha want a new one,” Red said, eyelights tracing the stain on the other skeleton’s vest and pants. “speakin’ o’ that, yer handle blood pretty well. yer old master a sadist or some shit? that why yer run off?”

“why do you keep askin’ ‘bout masters and callin’ me a pet?” Sans rebuffed. “i can take care of myself.”

Red puffed, “right, an’ i’m the queen of england. aint that it matters much. no collar, no master.” He shrugged. “so, yer helped me outta charity, a guy who yer hate. made that clear when yer got pissy with me and accusing me of killin’ kids outta nowhere. didja worry you’d start likin’ me too much, and need to remind yerself that i could dust yer and enjoy it? yer got a masochist streak, wuz pampered property so long yer need someone to put yer in yer place? mebbe yer not handlin’ shit like yer think. so tell me what. do. yer. want. from. me?” His eyelights went out and he forced out those last few words with a resonate growl. “money? favors? protection?” 

“...you’re not gonna let up on this.” Sans stood up, swaying with fatigue. “how do you feel about promises?”

“hate ‘em.”

“heh. of all the things to have in common...whelp, i want a promise from you.”

“what’s the promise?”

“dunno yet, i’ll think of one. you just gotta honor it when i ask. consider whatever debt you think you owe me paid. m’too lazy for extortion.” He held a hand out for Red to take, “and for the record, i don’t hate you.”

“find that hard to believe.”

Sans shrugged, pulling him to his feet, the pair of them staggering drunkenly in the crowded bolt hole. The anger and fight draining from the room. “hate aint good for the soul,” he said, the words bearing the weariness of experiences hard learned. Red struggled to find his balance and ended up leaning heavily against Sans, accidentally pinning him against the wall. Weird. Sans always seemed smaller, but they were indeed the same height...same breadth. “it’s just...have you ever looked at anyone and wondered, could that have been me?”

Red traced Sans’ dull eyelights and barely there grin with his gaze, “yeah.”

If the other skeleton felt half the frustration and resentment he experienced when he came into his life, then perhaps, well, perhaps he could empathize. If Sans was a mirror of what Red could have been with clean, healthy bones and no LV, then Red had to be the smoky reflection that Sans faced. For a no LV monster, to see one that resembled you so closely but scarred soul deep, had to be a horror in itself.

Sans didn’t hate Red, he realized. Sans hated himself.

They fell quiet for a moment, before the object of his thoughts tugged on Red’s sleeve, “c’mon. if you can stand, we can get you outta here. someone outta be lookin’ for you by now. we’re not too far from the park. I'd have taken you further but, uh...i wasn’t in any shape to be takin’ shortcuts.”

He didn’t bother asking for clarification on whatever the fuck he meant by that. In silence, they trudged out of the bolt hole, Sans sticking close until they found members of the Family. Two were out in the park, examining the toppled over mean cream cart. To Red’s surprise, it was Frisk and Lady Dreemur. The imperious goat monster looked them over with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, eyeing Sans with further scrutiny. Frisk simply hurried forward, checking over them both.

“What happened?” they demanded.

Red opened his mouth to answer when Sans cut in, “‘fraid you’ve got a traitor in the family. it was a monster that shot red in the back. i managed to run us both to safety. red here just woke up.”

A monster? But that meant…

“sans was the target.”

“wait, i was? but they shot…”

“if they meant to hit me, i’d be dead.” He turned his head towards Toriel, “lady dreemur i—”

She held up a paw, “A discussion for another day. Come, you need healing.” Red limped forward as she addressed the other skeleton, “Sans are you injured?”

“nah, just bone tired.”

“Hm. That aside, you will come with us. Frisk would be terribly put out if your health and well-being were not accounted for this evening. You will attend dinner.”

“you got it, tori.” He winked. 

Lady Dreemur narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin, “You’re lucky I find your forwardness charming.”

Flanked at either side by the goat monster and her kid, Red and Sans were escorted back to the Dreemur residence. As they walked, guards winked in and out of the shadows, keeping their distance, but never far. They were safe. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an answer to Rotburn’s prompt~ Hope you enjoy my twist on Sans helping Red, and them getting stuck together and having to bond.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading! Your comments and kudos are a joy when writing this story. It is great fun to see people theorizing, asking questions and getting involved. I'm also still accepting prompts! Also, feel free to check me out on [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/). I post art and sometimes story related stuff. I'm doing inktober, so there's lots of my attempting to use proper inking pens for the first time right now.
> 
> Now, up next...Will we get another prompt? Will we see the dinner? Is there anything YOU my fine readers want to read?


	6. Belladonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone talks. Papyrus is prepared. And there is finally a knock-knock joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Toriel Concept Art](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/181527560317/belladonna-concept-art-of-toriel-from-my-fanfic)]

“My Child, please inform the younger Gaster of his brother’s whereabouts.” 

As soon as the quartet reached the door to the Dreemur residence, Toriel began barking orders, her tone allowing for no hesitance or disobedience. She only softened for Frisk, who scampered off to start making phone calls. When she was satisfied with what was put in motion, she shed her charcoal, knee-length coat and adjusted her hat. Sans whistled. Red almost did as well. Lady Dreemur was twice their height looked every inch a queen in her stately, purple suit. The skirt hung loose and long, waistline resting high, hem almost ankle length; the paired jacket fashionably masking her curves. Red spied the faint outline of a holster. What a dame. 

“If the two of you are done drooling,” Lady Dreemur drawled, turning to walk deeper into the house. Red coughed and adjusted his hat. A dusting of cyan skittered across Sans’ nasal bridge. Frisk was right. Those were some nice hips. And Toriel knew it. However, they were quite lucky that she was sweet on a certain piece of FreeExp (and himself as an old friend), because Red couldn’t imagine getting away with with ‘appreciating’ the view otherwise. Strange to think he spent all those years telling trashy jokes through a door with the exiled monarch. 

“so you and tori?” Sans asked when she left the room, leaving the two of them to follow behind. His brows waggled. 

Red snorted, “unlike yer, i dun have a death wish. not that she aint a fun lady, but i’d rather not git one of her special pies. there’s a reason some folks call her belladonna. messin’ around wit’ her be the last thing i’d do. ” A pause. Sans seemed genuinely surprised, “don’t hurt to look, though.”

The other skeleton made a noise of agreement. Compared to Asgore, Toriel hardly had any LV, but she was quite dangerous when it suited her. There were moments, when she was with Frisk, that Red saw (felt) a thrum of what might have been the monster she was long ago, before the War, before the loss of her children, before her self-imposed banishment. It lacked the harsh chill that clung to so many, not unlike a cup of water left to sit by a bedside overnight, and was maternal. Different from Sans whose magic was a bottled summer day. Huh. When did he get to thinking so much about the comedian’s magic? Eh. Between the stupid debt and being grabbed by the soul while he was at his most vulnerable, Red had a good enough excuse for why he’d be on his mind.

Kept him from focusing too much on the hole in his ribs. Fuck that still hurt. Thank the Angel for his pain tolerance and the fact that he wasn’t bleeding anymore. 

“Boys?”

Red stiffed. Whelp, they’d best stop loitering. Rude to leave a lady waiting. Sans kept close as they strolled down the hallway into the sitting room. Dark wood paneling and floors contrasted heavily with the vividly floral wallpaper. Bright patterned rugs and a scattering of mismatched chairs cluttered the room with color. Bookshelves dominated the northern wall, while a radio rested by a western window. Paintings that once hung on the castle walls filled up the ‘bare’ spaces. Potted plants were everywhere that provided a semblance of sunshine. Red supposed it was stylish, it looked real classy and modern, but he felt cramped. How the Dreemurs tolerated it, he’d never know. 

“Take a seat, Sans,” Toriel said, the suggestion crisp as a whip. The FreeExp didn’t seem to mind her tone and perched himself on a red loveseat, one arm hung over the back like he belonged there. His feet didn’t touch the ground. All the furniture dwarfed anyone under six foot in height. “Mr. Gaster, we’ll convene in my office.” Red refrained from voicing the complaint resting on the tip of his tongue. He was still bitter about people rarely using his first name anymore. It was especially evident when Sans was around and people started pulling the ‘Mr. Gaster’ shit. At least ‘Red’ wasn’t a stiff formality.

Brooding, he lost himself in thought until Lady Dreemur shut the door of her office behind them. It had the same overwhelming look as the sitting room, but if one knew where to search, there were the small touches that reminded him that this was indeed his old friend. A joke book tucked between ‘101 ways to cook snails’ and ‘War through the ages’. A childish doodle of a frowning flower framed and sitting on a shelf. A photograph of Frisk holding Flowey, no more than ten years old, in an oversized striped sweater. 

Red met Toriel’s eyes, “so, yer lookin’ fer a report, ma’am?”

“I am waiting for you to remove your jacket so that I may better assess your injury.”

“can’t wait to see this gent stripped down to bare bones?” he teased, “an’ yer called the other sans forward.”

A soft chuckle allowed Red to relax. There she was. Toriel. Not Lady Dreemur, or the Queen or whatever other fancy titles she wore as armor. Just the woman who kept asking promises of him, and for whom, like the fool he was, kept saying yes. Maybe he was going soft. Red pushed aside those wayward wonderings and shed his jacket. He draped it over the back of an armchair before approaching her desk. She stood in front of it, eyes narrowed with consideration. 

“Vest and shirt as well,” she said. “I should have asked Frisk to have your brother bring a spare set of clothes for you. These are ruined.”

More articles of clothing joined the jacket, leaving Red in badly stained undershirt, pants and suspenders. “don’ worry too much ‘bout that, if i know boss, he’s nuthin’ if not prepared. betcha he’ll bring new duds fer me and the powder puff in yer sittin’ room.” After a considering moment, he divested himself of the undershirt, revealing his ribs. Call him a little self-conscious, but he shifted under Toriel’s accessing gaze. He knew he wasn’t much to look at. Even by the varying expanse of monster standards. He was small with thick bones riddled with cracks and scars, lacking the healthy luster of Sans’ or the clean eggshell white of his brother’s. Unconsciously, he rubbed at the missing chips along his tiba. Anyone who knew jack all about healing knew that some of the marks carved into his already imperfect form were purposeful. Too straight. Too clean.

But Toriel was not here to gab about unhealthy coping mechanisms. She was here to patch up the nasty hole blown in him. One would think that monsters wouldn’t (couldn’t) scar, given their lack of physicality compared to fleshy creatures. They were shells projected by their soul. But those shells, their bodies, were reflections of their experiences. Scars the reflection of intention or trauma. Surviving a strike from someone that meant you ill remained with you. They were a part of you, whether or not it was a memory you wanted to carry. A testament to a trial endured. In theory, because Red never saw it happen, scars could fade. A metamorphosis akin to that of a monster’s physical form altering to suit their soul after circumstances changed it, but instead of transforming, the body was renewed. Pretty thought, eh?

“The wound is partially closed,” Toriel said, at last laying a paw over his damaged ribs. “Not your doing, I assume.” Green light bloomed, intermingling with the matrix of red that clung to bone. His body was doing what it could to mend, to patch together the missing pieces. Powerful healers like her could mitigate a majority of the damage from wounds like this, where a section of the body was essentially magic soup trying to knit back into a familiar form. If allowed to heal without guidance, no doubt Red would live with a good chunk of one of his ribs missing (because like Sans, he was a shit at this color magic). As it stood, Toriel could guide together the soup and puzzle it together, solid but marred. Like a shattered china vase neatly glued whole again, never quite the same.

Red groaned as the green magic pulled apart the matrix plastered against the wound, breaking and reshaping at the whim of its mistress.

“Tell me Red,” she drew his nickname out long, solidifying a thought before continuing. “What are your thoughts of Sans now that you owe him a life debt? I am most curious what he asked of you in return.”

He went rock still, “what’cha mean, lady dreemur?”

“I am no fool.” A chill lanced up his spine as her mood shifted. She wasn’t going to abide by evasion and he was in no position to deny her. His magic was all twisted up in hers. Red choked on the sensation. “I have repaired enough of your injuries to be familiar with how you heal. A wound of this degree would not have ceased bleeding without intervention, and yet there is no sign of green magic used, implying the consumption of monster food to glut your system with magic to promote healing. Sans mentioned you waking up, meaning that you fell unconscious and he was at your aid during that time. Your falling unconscious is expected of an injury of this degree, and thus, the only way for you to have recovered enough to rouse would have been for him to have fed you that earlier mentioned monster food. So I reiterate, Mr. Gaster, what does he expect of you in return for his good deed?”

Fucking hell. Couldn’t a guy get a break?

“he’s a piece of fluff, blackmail aint his thing if that’s what yer worried ‘bout,” Red rubbed his face with both hands. “asked fer a promise. didn’t have one fer me, so i’m on hold. blank check type deal.” Toriel’s magic gentled, no longer attempting to smother him with her wrath. “he still pisses me off by existin’ in the same room, but yer don’t hafta be concerned ‘bout me lookin’ fer a reason to dust him. i pay my debts. and what’s a skeleton got if he don’t got honor enough to keep from killin’ the guy that didn’t hafta save his life and did anyway?”

“Hm, interesting. I would have thought…”

“what’s on yer mind?”

Large paws looped around his front, nearly covering the entirely of his ribcage, “He is quite...delicate. And given the way Frisk speaks of you two, I thought perhaps…” The lilt in her tone said it all. Red snorted, much to his mending bones’ displeasure.

“if yer were thinkin’ he’d be lookin’ fer a collar, then yer’d be wrong,” he shook his head. “closest i think he’d have asked fer is mebbe a quick bonin’ or fer me to be nice or some shit when we cross paths. though, he’s so damn prissy that i can’t imagine him seriously propositionin’ anyone without lookin’ like he forgot howta breathe.” Then again, the FreeExp was just full of surprises lately. “tiba honest, i thought fer a while he was tryin’ to git an in wit yer or frisk. dunno why or how it happened, but i know him and the kid are...close. and yer made me promise to not kill him. wuz waitin’ to see if he’d be a made a part of the family instead of just a friend we’re ‘sposed to keep our claws offa ‘less they do sumthin’ stupid.” 

Toriel hummed off-key, adding airily, “It was not for lack of offering.”

Red nearly lurched in her grip, “naw! yer made him an offer? and the dumbass said no?”

“I do believe the prospect terrified him more than living in the city with his pitiful stats. We were all quite disappointed. Frisk was utterly endeared to him at first sight, and anything that makes them happy is of importance to myself and my husband.” A low growl built in her throat, the kind that was all scarcely contained frustration. “You must have felt his magic by now, tell me, how could Asgore or I not want him close at hand? It reminds me—he reminds me—of long ago, when Asriel was alive...of how we were then. Monsterkind. Before we lost ourselves. Before LOVE replaced HOPE in our souls. We were nothing if not accommodating, especially given how he looked when appeared in Asgore’s garden. Yet he turned us down. Repeatedly.”

“yeah…” Red wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “short of pinin’ down the slippery fucker and chainin’ him to a wall, i dun think he’s gonna ever accept that kinda protection. he’s determined to take care of himself. been over a year and he’s still kickin’. must have sumthin’ figured out. even if he’s still got no sense and is apparently one short step from a damned crisis. his last master musta been a real cracked piece of work.” His mental gears stilled and he realized what Toriel said, “wait. he just appeared in the don’s garden? how’d he get in?”

Toriel sniffed, green magic fading as her spell ended, “We do not know how he entered. It was evening and we were on a family stroll when Frisk spotted him simply staring at the golden flowers, covered in blood. Before Asgore or I could even CHECK him, Frisk wrapped around him like they had found an old friend. Given his level and their sensitivity to such things, I am unsurprised by their reaction.”

She pulled away, examining her work. Red was in a far fairer state than before. Her nose wrinkled, “You need to bathe. I am not allowing you at my dinner table like this.”

“so the dinner offer is still on the table?” he quipped, twisting and stretching. There was a lingering ache but none of the scars felt ready to crack back open. “thought yer were business ‘fore pleasure.”

“Dinners are always business, Mr. Gaster,” Toriel said, picking up Red’s ruined clothes, obviously offended by their continued presence soiling her office. “But who is to say business is not pleasurable?”

“yer drive a man crazy talkin’ like that.” He chuckled, following the goat monster as she opened the door and led him to the bathing room. Red sobered as he stood in the doorway of the tiled room, “fer serious talk, if we’ve a traitor in our midst…”

Lady Dreemur held her head high, a half-smile displaying her pearly fangs, the picture of dangerous elegance, “Then he will be found and disposed of. It has been too long since we have had a public execution. Long lived though we may be, seems some of our memories are lacking. A reminder is in order.”

“i can’t see frisk likin’ that idea.”

“They are such a sensitive child,” Toriel sighed, expression indulgent yet manic. “Wash up, my friend, I believe I ‘ear a certain someone’s voice.” She tucked one of her long ears back and turned, off to go act as the Lady of the house. Red nodded, shoulders dipping as he caught the sharp tones of his brother’s arrival.

 

As predicted, Papyrus was the picture of prepared. He invaded the bathroom while Red was in the middle of scrubbing off the blood and it took a few minutes of bickering before his younger sibling left, spare clothes dumped on the edge of the sink. There was no shouting, like Red expected, but he did call him a dozen different names and shook him until Red told him to piss off. The worry in those sockets made his soul twist. Hard to forget that despite everything, Papyrus was always there, doing whatever he could to keep them both alive. There was a time when he wouldn’t have let go if he learned Red was that close to killed. He would have made sure his older brother wasn’t about to dust, then spent the next few hours screaming his head off, all the while clinging to him, demanding why he couldn’t just take care of himself, why he had to be so pathetic, and how it would be merciful just to crush his skull in with his bare hands so that he didn’t have to live with such an embarrassment anymore.

Depending on his mood, Red might have laid there unresponsive, uncaring, or screamed back for him to just do it. To dust him. Since he was so shit at doing it himself. At least Papyrus would be stronger and less burdened if he gave into his LV and destroyed him.

But they were different now. Their lives were different. The Surface, despite its problems, was better than being trapped in a hole, wondering if today was the day the food would run out or if their little world would collapse into complete anarchy.

“knock knock,” Red turned away from the mirror at the sound of Sans’ voice, having just straightened his tie. 

“who’s there?”

“butter.”

“butter who?” he opened the door to see the other skeleton standing there, arms full of black-and-red. 

“butter hurry up, i need to use the bathroom.”

“those are my duds yer got.”

Sans shrugged, “are you sayin’ these aint my colors?”

“fuck no.”

“your brother threw them at me and said i wasn’t fit for polite company. And, i quote, “not that a change of clothes will make you any less of a useless waste of air and space, but at least you won’t offend the eyes.” rather considerate of him.”

Red snorted, “aint he a peach?”

Sans’ smile verged on idiotic, “he tries so hard to act like he doesn’t care. it’s adorable.”

At that, Red guffawed. Adorable? Angel, air. He needed air. He couldn’t breathe. The FreeExp thought Papyrus—his higher LV younger brother, the former vice captain of the royal guard, who was one of the scariest monsters in the underground and one of the most respected members of the Family—was adorable. Paps would be among the first who would try to dust Sans if he was no longer untouchable. 

“wut is wrong wit yer?” Red asked between gasps. “I knew yer wuz soft on him, but damn.”

Sans shrugged, eyelights hazy, “he reminds me a lot of my own little brother.” And with that, he slipped into the bathroom and shoved Red out. Sneaky bastard.

 

Red returned to the sitting room to find it far fuller than when he left. Papyrus sat with Frisk on his lap, gesticulating wildly at Undyne. Kid probably took a seat there to keep him from pacing (or out of the kitchen). Only his little brother didn’t have the good sense to keep out of Lady Dreemur’s way when she was cooking. The fish bitch herself was dressed in rumpled shirt sleeves and pants, scarred forearms on full display. She was laughing. Likely proud of whatever she said that made Papyrus so flustered. Nearby, filling up most of a couch with his bulk, was Don Dreemur himself, the stark wall of a castle in all grey. Flowey rested in a pot on a corner table, stem half curled in on himself, looking bitter and wimpy as always.

The scent of snail pie permeated the air. 

“Fuhuhu, your punk ass is alive I see,” Undyne shouted, suffering from the same volume control issues as Papyrus. Indoor and outdoor voices were one and the same. Red flipped her the bird. “Heard you were shot in the back. Were you asleep in public again or someone catch you with your pants down?”

“oi, fuck off, fish bitch.”

“Oooh, someone’s feelin’ defensive. Bet you were tongue deep in the FreeExp’s throat when it happened.”

“UNDYNE! I DID NOT NEED THE MENTAL IMAGE OF MY BROTHER CANOODLING WITH HIS PATHETIC DOPPELGANGER RIGHT NOW.” Payrus grabbed for Undyne, but she lurched out of the way, cackling. 

“Alphys is going to love this.”

“don’t yer have anythin’ better to do than gossip with that bag of crazy?”

“That’s my mate you’re talkin’ shit about, punk!”

“Is she still writing that comic?” Frisk interjected with a far too satisfied smirk. Undyne stopped snarling at Red to give the teenager a lecherous grin. “What chapter is she on? Have they kissed yet?”

“comic? the fuck yer on about kid?” He looked between the two of them, eliciting raucous laughter. 

“NYEH. THAT ATROCIOUS PIECE OF GARBAGE HAS NO BUSINESS EXISTING. I AM STILL RECOVERING FROM THAT OVERLY GRAPHIC SOUL SCENE.” Papyrus clicked his teeth in disgust, “BY THE ANGEL, WHO DRAWS THAT SORT OF RISQUE MATERIAL AND THEN LEAVES IT OUT FOR ANYONE TO SEE!”

“Soul scene? Alphys has gotten that far already? Undyne, why didn’t you tell me she made so much progress?”

“Pfft, you’re jealous that it’s not you my Alphy is drawing having a torrid affair with his clone.” Undyne slung an arm over the back of the couch, “I’ll show you what she’s got done when you visit next, kid.”

Flowey decided to pipe up at this point to complain, “Please leave me at home if you do, I don’t want to see any of that.”

“THE ANATOMY WAS TERRIBLE. AND WHY WERE THERE TENTACLES INVOLVED?”

“i don’ like what i’m hearin’. what’s this ‘bout a soul scene and a clone?” Frisk might know the froggits-and-the-moldsmals talk, but this wasn’t exactly the kind of talk one had around your employer. Red’s eyelights darted to Asgore. Don Dreemur had a newspaper out now, but if he knew anything about the former king, he was listening. At least he didn’t seem too troubled by the idea of Frisk being ‘corrupted’ by naughty pictures. Then again, Frisk was his kid, he might just expect this of them now that they weren’t in stripes.

Fortunately, all talk of comics faded out as Lady Dreemur stepped back into the room. 

“Dinner will be served shortly, please make your way to the dining room,” she instructed, walking down the hall to fetch Sans. When she vanished from sight, it was like a bell rang, because Frisk hopped off Papyrus’ lap, grabbed his hand with one of their own and scooped up Flowey with the other. Undyne rose to follow. Asgore folded the newspaper, lifting slowly from his seat, letting out a low grumble as he stretched. 

“Gaster,” Don Dreemur said as the others left the room, leaving only Red behind. “It is unfortunate what occurred to you in our territory. I must ask, is it true that there is a traitor?”

“i didn’t see the shooter,” Red replied. “sorry boss. only sans knows.” 

“Tonight we will talk no further on business matters. My wife wishes a pleasant dinner and for you to rest. In the morning, however…”

“hearin’ yer loud loud and clear.”

“Good. You will stay in the guest suite tonight. It would be best for you to turn in early, I have a proposal for your eyes and ears only, and you will need to be of sound mind.” Asgore laid the newspaper down and followed the others into the dining room, leaving Red to trail after him. It was never pretty when the Don assigned ‘special’ work. Someone always got hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Red has a meeting with the Don. There is business to be done.
> 
> So. Much. Talking. I don't even know how I feel about it. At least we finally learn how the Dreemurs met Sans and learn that Red isn't the only one who notices that Sans' magic feels nice. +cough+ 
> 
> Still looking for prompts or suggestions! Once this 'arc' is done, there will be all sorts of play room to answer questions myself or my readers have about this world. Such as where are the cops? Where does Sans live? All this and more!
> 
> A question for my readers: Given that Red is our only (and in turn, an unreliable) narrator, would anyone be interested in the occasional chapter dedicated to other character POVs? It wouldn't be from Frisk or Sans, but rather, Papyrus, Undyne or Toriel, and their meetings/interactions related to Sans/Red.
> 
> If you want, check out my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/), feel free to hit me up there. I try to do chapter previews there as well!


	7. The roles we play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a meeting with the Don

The Don and his Lady were grand at playing sane these days. If Red didn’t know better, he might think them no more unhinged than your average monster. It was all for the kid. Without Frisk, this fragile normal would fall apart. His eyelights flicked between the two boss monsters as they all settled at the table for dinner, aware of hidden triggers and teetering sanity. For example, the snail pie was safe to eat, but touching the cinnamon and butterscotch was asking for a bad time. The golden flower tea? Even if you hated the stuff, better drink up when Asgore’s doing the pouring. How they hadn’t accidentally killed the little human over the years, Red would never know, but they easily navigated the minefield at the dinner table with a placid smile.

Late to arrive was Sans.

Freshly scrubbed and in clean duds, he made a pretty picture. Even if black wasn’t his color. Clad in a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, fitted pinstripe pants to match and a (properly) buttoned crimson vest, he matched Red in the most uncanny manner. Give him an angry scowl and a false tooth and...fuck. He might be a passable mimic after all. Though the soft white eyelights and distinct lack of scars would give him away every time.

Papyrus, the epitome of tact, spoke up first, “I SEE YOU ARE REMOTELY ACCEPTABLE IN APPEARANCE WHEN YOU FUCKING BOTHER TO BATHE AND WEAR CLOTHES THAT ARE CORRECTLY SIZED.” 

“thanks edge,” Sans winked and sauntered his way to an open seat. With the former monarchs at either end of the table, Papyrus and Undyne sitting across from one another by Asgore, Frisk to the right of Toriel, Flowey at their elbow, and Red settled between his brother and the kid, that left a nice little spot next to Toriel for the FreeExp to sit. Right across from Frisk and out of arm’s reach of both Paps and Undyne. Smart move. Maybe the only one he’s made all day. Still too casual around Don and his Lady for comfort. “hafta say, you’re lookin’ _sharp_ yourself.”

Toriel chuckled, earning a suspicious look from Papyrus, “WAS THAT A PUN?”

“right to the _point_ , eh? always the _keen_ one, with a _razor_ wit to go along with those good looks.” Sans sat down, grinning at Papyrus’ black expression. It wouldn’t be proper to scream in agonized frustration at the skeleton’s audacity when a certain someone was sitting right there, clearly enjoying the ‘tasteless’ humor. He glanced at a smiling Toriel and fiddled with the cutlery, “We’ll _fork_ me, this all looks delicious.”

“That is _knife_ of you to say, Sans,” she replied, watching as he filled his plate. Sorta. For someone that claimed he liked the way the food looked, Sans was being rather shy with the portions.

“Is this where you two start talking about _spoon_ -ing?” Frisk teased, eyes bright with mischief as Sans colored faintly. “What? You were the one that mentioned _fork_ -ing. Thought I’d just _china_ in.” They lifted their cup of tea and took a sip.

Sans shifted in his seat and waved at Frisk, bidding them to stop, “I _cup_ -itulate. You win.”

“Whatever is the _platter_?” Toriel asked, her gaze even more focused than before, as if she were puzzling out an interesting riddle.

“uhh, hafta say talkin’ ‘bout _fork_ -ing at the table with the kiddo don’t seem a- _fork_ -priate.”

Red grinned, seeing the way both the Lady and Frisk looked at Sans. The comedian realized the mistake in his admission about a second later, and promptly shoved a bite of food into his mouth. His permanent smile twisted in what appeared to be discomfort, before he started searching the table. Those little eyelights fixed on a bottle of ketchup sitting with the rest of the condiments. Likely the only reason it was there to start was because the Dreemurs knew he could drink the stuff like Red could with mustard. Speaking of which...Red scooted said bottled mustard his way. Thank you Frisk.

Beside him, Papyrus was ignoring the punning mayhem on the other side of the table, and was discussing training routines with Undyne and Asgore. The Don could rely on those two to keep his men in shape and in line. Which made the idea of a traitor all the more unsettling.

Red tipped the bottle in his claws over to give it a good shake, only for the cap to fly off, and half the contents of the glass to splatter all over his plate and himself. The table went silent. All eyes on him. Magic flushed his joints and rose along his nasal bridge. What the fuck? Humiliation shifted disbelief when he spotted Sans poorly hiding his satisfied amusement. He was grinning like the cat who ate the canary AND the cream. Red flashed a smile that was all menace, setting the bottle down and wiping his shirt with a napkin, “ _mustard_ not noticed the top wuz loose.” At least he liked his food this way, swimming in the condiment.

Sans, the unmitigated pain in his coccyx, levitated the ketchup into his hand, far too happy with the incident. “i _mayo_ be surprised you didn’t expect that to happen,” he said, hinting at why he was so pleased with himself. Red narrowed his sockets as a recent memory slapped him in the face. Sans gibbering threats for the hotcat incident and himself telling him that revenge worked better when one didn’t share their plan aloud. 

The FreeExp snickered, but he froze when there was a clank, and red spilled all over his plate. Everyone at the table looked at Frisk this time, who was laughing merrily in their seat.

“Well, you specifically said to loosen ALL the lids on the condiment bottles next time Red was over…”

“heh. good one, pal. you got me.”

Toriel tutted in reproach, and the dinner proceeded without further incident.

 

After the second bath of the evening, dressed down in his undershirt and slacks, Red readied himself for a sleepless night. He never rested well out of his own bed. Didn’t help that Papyrus had gone, leaving him relatively alone in the Dreemur house. He was about to enter the guest room when he heard the deep baritone of the Don rumbling from one door down. That was where Sans was staying. A sensible skeleton would keep his non-existent nose out of his boss’ business, but after all that he learned today, he had to admit, he was curious. He padded just close enough to hear what was being said a little more clearly.

“... you certain?” Asgore asked.

Sans, being a mumbler, was harder to hear when he replied, “yessir...they were...and…” Angel damnit, why couldn’t he open his mouth when he talked like a normal monster? Red refrained from growling as he strained against the door.

“What of elder Mr. Gaster, ah, Red?”

“...tori...him...was at...stand....”

“I see.”

“Ahem.” Red tensed, no longer paying attention to the conversation within the room. Peering over his shoulder he saw Frisk, wearing neutral displeasure on their freshly scrubbed face. Bits of hair clung to pinked cheeks, a green dressing gown swamping their frame. In their arms was that stupid, whiny flower. Why did they have to carry it everywhere inside the house? 

He cleared his non-existent throat, “heh. evenin’ buddy.”

“We discussed this eavesdropping habit of yours Red.” He did not like that tone. Fuck. Frisk shouldn’t be this intimidating, but he found himself sweating, eyelights drifting to the patterned wallpaper, little better than a dog caught misbehaving by its master. He even hooked a claw about his clavicle, scratching at it like one might pull a collar. Red turned, shoulders pinched. “Strike two.”

“it’s part of my job! how else do yer expect me to keep the don safe?”

“Sans isn’t a threat to myself or my family,” Frisk said. The flower in their arms scoffed, leaves crossing. Huh. Interestin’. They tugged at a petal before continuing, “He’s a lazy jokester that likes to avoid fights at any cost. Mom and dad want to protect him because I do not wish him hurt. That. Is. It. Do we have an understanding?”

There was a distinct edge to their voice and a narrowed gleam to their eye. This wasn’t a little kid talking, but the almost grown Dreemur heir. The one who would represent the Family should anything happen to their parents. They were a pacifist, true, but enduring the harsh reality of the Underground and witnessing the prejudice above, made their soul trait shine true. Frisk would do whatever it took to achieve their goals. And right now, protecting Sans from Red’s snooping was one.

“r-right,” Red shoved his hands into his pockets. He never wanted a handkerchief so bad in his life. Had an ocean ready to mop up off his skull.

“A smiley trashbin is what he is. His jokes make me want to rip my own petals off. I still say let Red at ‘em. Let the last comedian stay standing.” Frisk flicked Flowey before he could continue ranting. Another reason not to like the flower. Not only was he a coward and a wimp, but he was a whiner too. Never had anything productive to say.

The door to the guest room opened, Don Dreemur looming into the hall. There was a beat of silence before Frisk grinned at their adoptive father, “How is he doing, dad?”

“As well as can be expected, child,” Asgore said, eyes flicking between the three of them. “Gaster. Is there a reason why you are not abed?”

“just sayin’ g’nite to the kid.”

“I see. That is all?”

Red nodded, “do yer need me fer anythin’, sir?”

“No. Do try wake in a timely manner. I do still wish to speak with you in the morning.”

One could feasibly cut the disquiet with a knife before everyone went their separate ways, filtering into individual rooms. A knot curled in Red’s proverbial gut. He wasn’t going to sleep well tonight.

 

_“n-no. please. n-no. nononono.”_

THUMP!

What the fuck? Red sat up, stirred from a shallow slumber by the ruckus. The muttering continued, accompanied by the sound of someone thrashing about on a mattress. Sans must have been more traumatized by yesterday’s events than he let on. FreeExp was probably stressed out of his skull. Close calls with dusting rarely sat easy on the soul. Red wasn’t exactly the picture of pleased, and would probably have his share of unsettling dreams as a result of being shot. Again.

He was about to smack on the wall and gripe at Sans before he woke up the rest of the house with his issues when a wave of warmth settled thick in room. Invasive. Overheated. Desperate. It was the intent of a monster who was in a fight for his life and wasn’t planning on losing. Red was caught between reveling in the soul-deep heat and trying to push it away with a clear assault of his own magic. A shudder rattled through his bones. 

_Guilt. Shame. Fear. BadBadBad. Run. Hide. StandYourGround. Anger. Grief. Trapped. WhyWhyWhy?_

Red growled, eyelights flaring, instincts on edge from the overbearing projection of intent. It felt like he was in the middle of an Encounter and CHECKING Sans, not sitting in a different room than him. His magic was everywhere! He flared his aura, shoving some of his own intent back as a shield and warning. Maybe it would be enough to wake the other. There was silence for a blessed moment before the warm magic turned blistering. Once more scalding against chilled magic, a molten razor blade that made him feel lower than a piece of dog shit on a shoe. Like every particle of dust crusting his soul was a link in a weighted chain dragging him to the executioner's block. Red's breathing hitched and he slammed a hand against the wall, a desire to FIGHT clashing with the pressure bidding him to give up before he crumbled.

Sans’ aura retreated. 

Red drew in steady breaths and listened, waiting. He heard the rustle of fabric, the scrape of bone against bone and a few muffled curses. 

“they promised,” Sans said, the silence of early morning making even his mumble intelligible. “no more. that'll never happen again.” Red kept listening but all he heard was the steady tap of...something? Like the tips of phalanges against a window. Likely the skeleton calming himself with a repetitive gesture. When no further bursts of magic or muttering ensued, Red flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

 

“I see you took my words to heart and rose early.”

Dressed for the day, Red leaned in the open frame of Asgore’s personal office. It was domineering and stark in comparison to Toriel’s. The dark wood furnishings swallowed up most of the natural light allowed through the heavy drapes. Save for an ornamental globe and a shelf of cut crystal glassware, the room lacked ornamentation, choosing instead to use the space for thick tomes with worn covers. There were a few on gardening and naturalism that offered a relief from bibliographies and texts on other just as dry topics such as historical wars, politics and economics. A book on law laid on the edge of the Don’s desk, a torn slip of paper peeking between the pages to mark his spot.

“Take a seat, be sure to shut the door behind you.” The boss monster sipped from a steaming cup between his paw. When Red sat down on the leather armchair, Asgore motioned to a pot resting beside him, “Tea? My wife made it fresh this morning.”

“thank yer,” Red wasn’t in the mood to eat or drink, but he accepted a mug and nursed it like a sober man might a bottle of whiskey. “yer wanted to talk business?” 

“Mhm. Yes. Yes. Information on what occurred yesterday has been trickling in. Apparently our traitor thought themselves clever and styled their clothes to mask their physical features. Only one source of information confidently identified the shooter as a monster, and you very well know who that is.” The Don fixed Red with a level stare. So his spies weren’t certain about the species of the gunman, but Sans was? 

A CHECK outside of an Encounter wouldn’t give your average monster that kind of information. It was why Frisk was able to sneak around Snowdin after they Fell and purchase supplies while wearing a bandana over their face, no one the wiser. Monsters who’d never seen a human before then had no way of knowing they were one without engaging in a fight. Sure, trying to sense magic or intent was a good second option, but some monsters (and the occasional human) were good at concealing that sort of thing, and were equivalent to a brick wall to the senses.

“yer want me to smoke out the offender?”

Asgore took a long, exaggerated sip of tea before replying, “In part, yes.” Red kept his expression schooled. “We cannot have a fool risking the well-being of monster kind by openly defying my rule and attacking an individual under our protection. He must be caught, questioned and disposed of. My wife is of the mind to make a demonstration of him to quell further rebellion. I do not disagree, but an execution offers an opportunity to do away with an unspoken part of the problem.”

“sir?” he wasn’t certain where this was going. Red expected to be sent off like an assassin into the night, to fetch the shooter, then torture them until they were too weak to put up a fight, before the monarchs disposed of him in some public fashion. 

“Sans.” The skeleton lifted his browbones, befuddled by the Don’s tone. “The other Sans. His low LV makes him a liability.”

“are yer...are yer askin’ me to…?” His thoughts skittered to Toriel and Frisk. Those two were awful fond of the FreeExp. While Red wasn’t exactly fond of Sans, his soul twisted at the prospect of dusting the guy right now. Between the promise Lady Dreemur wrenched out of Red, the way the kid defended Sans and the life debt he himself owed...whelp, he didn’t have many morals left, but fuck if he tried to hold onto what he still had. 

Asgore, thankfully, waved away his train of thought, “Not at this time. No, I will, however, extend a request for you to resolve this glaring weakness he creates. Any way possible. Him gallivanting about with those low stats is asking for future troubles, and his closeness to Frisk makes him a larger target. More traditional monsters will see this an opportunity to usurp power. To have reason to rebel. We cannot be divided. Not while our numbers are so low.” Red saw the haggard craze of a king who couldn’t endure another war. Whose people would not survive being trapped Below by the humans a second time. “You were caught in the crossfire. We must squash this spark before it becomes a conflagration of civil war.” 

“all over a piece of fluff?”

“Wars have started over less.” Red kept his trap shut. Asgore was precariously close to the edge of one of his more paranoid episodes. One guy trying to off Sans didn’t mean there was a rebellion out to overthrow the Don from within the Family. “As I see it, there are a few options. The easiest being Sans gaining LOVE. Have him execute the final blow on the monster that attempted to kill him, make a show of it, a great thanks and honor for the one who took the bullet in his stead.” Crimson eyes gleamed as he continued, “Frisk would eventually forgive the both of you. Particularly when their little friend is a little sturdier and a little less tempting to those who more easily fall prey to their instincts. Of course, there are other options…”

Options that Sans kept turning down apparently.

Options that didn’t feel like options to Red.

“how long do i got?”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day. I will allow you to handle my personal request as you see fit. Though I do recommend not dithering. After all, when you catch the shooter, you must decide if that is the route you will take, and my patience is only so great.”

The golden flower tea sat cold in his cup, surface rippling as he fought the urge to ask why he was given any choice. It would have been easier (so much easier) if Asgore simply gave him a direct command.

Don Dreemur flashed his fangs in place of a smile, “Now, I believe I have neglected ascertaining your version of events.”

An hour after he entered the room, Red shuffled out, seriously in need of a smoke and enough mustard to drown in. He did anything and everything he had to in order to survive Underground, and continued to do so in this angel forsaken cesspool of a city. Like Asgore, he had a role to play in the grand stage play they called life. Some days that meant smuggling human liquor, other days he kept his skull to the wall in search of information. Sometimes he was the judge or jury...and others, he was the executioner. 

Red adjusted his jacket and tie.

He hated mornings like these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we close this arc. Not my favorite chapter by far, but some crucial information is learned by Red, as well as two callbacks to previous chappies~ 
> 
> I would like to give a big thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and given kudos to this fic. You guys are great and keep me inspired to create. Never expected this fic to get such a positive reaction. At the time of posting this, there are over 1000 hits, 44 comments and 135 kudos. What. The. Heck. Y'all are beyond awesome. Now, onto other things. For those of you who do the [tumblr thing](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/) I have a [blog post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179155156227/fanfic-concepts) about future fics I'm contemplating. One's a Mobfell!Sans x UT!Sans angst/horror fic (tis the season y'all) and the other would be my first exploration into 2nd person pov. Check it out. Leave your thoughts, suggestions, prompts, whatevs. 
> 
> See you next chapter!


	8. The Great and Terrible Papyrus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** Papyrus isn’t like his brother. Maybe that’s for the best.  
>  The promised POV chapter~

The Great and Terrible Papyrus was many things. A high-ranking member of the Dreemur Family. The former Vice-Captain of the Royal Guard. A cunning strategist with few rivals, and the sheer raw power to put his plans into action. He bit, clawed and killed his way to the top of the food chain when Underground, because it was either become stronger, or become someone else’ EXP.

What he was not was a blind fool, nor was he patient. Because there was only so much patience one could offer before it became hesitance, and hesitance earned you a knife to the back. Or to the front. Or to the face. Monsters could be just as ruthless as humans. It was the only way to survive down there, and often, one of the few options to stay alive Above.

Thus when Papyrus wanted something, he took it.

When he needed something done, he did it.

If someone needed dusting, he was the first in line to put a bone in their head.

Which meant this whole confounding nonsense with Sans made his teeth ache. There were too many unasked questions, and now his brother owed the idiot a life debt. He was flirting with weakness. Risking his hide for a piece of fluff that would abandon him if convenient. Oh, Papyrus knew. He knew and he saw Sans for what he really was deep down. A flighty little coward. A crack in his brother’s defenses. A faulty imitator. A flaw in security of his allies. 

Sans knew nothing of loyalty. Papyrus could see it in the skittish, secretive mannerisms. The way he watched everyone with sickening self-importance when he thought no one was looking. As if his low LV made him better than those around him. Red once mentioned in passing that Sans’ magic felt warm, his tone suggesting it was a forbidden fruit yet to be plucked. Papyrus refrained from kicking the little moron right then and there. Sans would be the death of him. The death of all of them if they weren’t careful. Kill or Be Killed. Frisk’s pacifism was tolerable because they were loyal. They wouldn’t let their morals be the demise of their loved ones.

Which was why when he spotted a certain nuisance surrounded by human police, Papyrus almost walked away.

“hey, easy, easy. we’re all adults. let’s talk this out.” 

He should have walked away.

It would rid them of a threat and prevent infighting. A perfect solution.

But the Great and Terrible Papyrus was not a traitor. As much as it irked him, he wouldn’t allow the idiot to come to harm on his watch, because to do so was on par with treachery. He worked too hard to get this far to lose it all because level bait was a little too familiar with his employers.

“WHAT APPEARS TO BE THE PROBLEM, OFFICERS?” Papyrus asked in the most saccharine manner possible. He strode forward with languid ease, shoulders erect, aura held close to his bones, ready to be unleashed should these meat bags become hostile. Eyelights traced the cut of their uniforms and the letters emblazoned on their badges. How interesting. If he was remembering correctly, this department was paid off by the Family to stay out of monster business. One of the human mobsters must have gotten bold and outbid their protection fees. Turncoats. So easy to sway with gold. 

The humans scoffed and an older man spat at Papyrus’ boots. A blond individual gripped Sans’ shoulder tight enough to earn a wince. Primitive instincts relished in the little monster’s helplessness. The sweat on his skull, the empty hollows of his eyes, the strain of his smile. So used to joking his way out of trouble and galavanting off that he is terrified of this entrapment. Papyrus could easily wrap a hand around those cervical vertebrae and snap them with a flick of a wrist. A pity this fear only arose because of blithering humans. He’d like Sans far more if he knew his place and supplicated at the feet of his betters, submitting to their mastery and staying out of sight like a good piece of property. The lack of a collar around that throat was insulting given Sans’ obvious incompetence at taking care of himself.

Oh, certainly, he wasn’t dead. But that did not equal thriving. He would break one day. Just like his brother did. Bitterness welled in his chest. Red was only alive because of Papyrus. They both knew it. Because for so long, the jackass thought his little brother was better off with him gone. He ended that little habit upon reaching adulthood by knocking out a tooth and forcing Red to become a sentry with him. Brother became replaced with Boss for years after that incident.

“Get lost, monster. We’re dealing with a thief.”

Sans looked at Papyrus with a disgusting glitter of hope, before the pressure on his shoulder was enough to make him squirm, “i toldja, i aint steal nuthin’. that lady was lying.” The intent radiating off these meat bags meant that any attack would be lethal to a 1hp weakling like him.

One of the officers began searching Sans, ignoring Papyrus completely. Fools. He watched them swipe Sans’ wallet and keys from outer pockets, before patting down his vest and frisking beneath. He made a noise at the first couple items, but actually began to struggle in earnest when the officer pulled out a strange little rectangular device. 

“The fuck is this?” the officer demanded.

“nuthin’ important. jus’ some scraps.” Sans didn’t reach for the object, but instead tried to put his hands back into his pockets, only for them to be slapped away.

“Hands where we can see them, freak.”

“This doesn't look like nothing.”

“Oi, what kind of creepy monster machine is that?”

The human holding the device fiddled with it until it lit up. Sans’ eyelights were fuzzy, shifty, like he wanted to fight back but forced himself to remain still. Small. Unthreatening. A mouse caught by an overfed house-cat, waiting for a chance to run, hoping to outlast the feline's malevolent curiosity. Once more he looked to Papyrus, as if he wished to plead for help, but the hopefulness faded with a sputter into resignation. Shoulders slumped. He knew Papyrus had every reason to let him suffer.

“EXCUSE ME, GENTLEMEN, BUT YOU ARE MAKING A GRAVE MISSTEP. YOUR DISRESPECT WILL BE GENEROUSLY FORGIVEN IF YOU RELEASE THIS MONSTER AND HIS PROPERTY INTO MY CUSTODY.”

“Thought I told you to scram, bone bag.”

The officer with Sans’ belongings shoved them into his pockets, reaching for the club at his hip. Others palmed pistols. “Get lost before we make you.”

“DO YOU IMBECILES KNOW WHO I AM?”

The blond man that spat at Papyrus before, he sneered, “A low life thug that should not have crawled from under that dirt heap you were under.”

Papyrus’ mouth twisted into a razor smile, “IT APPEARS YOUR BETTERS HAVE NOT INFORMED YOU OF MY NAME AND STATION IN THIS CITY. MORE THE PITY. I WILL ENJOY MAKING AN EXAMPLE OF YOU FOOLS. MAYBE THEN YOU PISS POOR HUMAN GUARDSMEN WILL REFRAIN FROM GOING BACK ON A DEAL IN THE FUTURE.” He summoned a barrage of blue bones beneath their feet, the needless banter giving him enough time to prepare his little trap. Sans remained still, while the startled humans mistakenly tried to move. The moron holding onto Sans dropped his grip, too focused on not being impaled, which was a futile effort. Papyrus watched their souls turn blue and their HP shear away. It took a great deal of magic and will power to pull this off, but he was a prime specimen of expertise and control. He grabbed their souls and threw them to the ground, bones shooting up to pierce fleshy limbs, wrenching out screams of pain. 

His blue magic lifted, because for all he was adept, trying to pin that many souls at once was near impossible for any longer than a few seconds. 

“I AM THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS! YOU WILL BE LUCKY IF A BOTHER SPARING YOUR MISERABLE LIVES AFTER THIS INSULT.”

The ones that weren't immobilized by their wounds scrambled to their feet, the sound of pistols firing filling the air. Papyrus shielded himself with a wall of bones and flicked slim constructs across the combat zone, shattering their weapons or knocking them free. In the midst of the sudden chaos, like always, was Sans. Instead of running for cover, he ducked and weaved his way to the officer who stole his belongings, rummaging through pockets like he wasn't on the enemy's turf. How. The. Fuck. Was. He. Alive? 

“GET OVER HERE!” Papyrus seethed, launching another blue attack to change his soul color again. Except the predictable fucker leaned away.

“i'm fine. i'll be going now. see you at the hotdog stand maybe once it’s patched up. ”

Fuck no. Papyrus closed the distance between them with a few long strides. They were still in a hot zone but he wasn't letting Sans out of his sight without some answers. The smaller skeleton flinched away from his attempted grab, turning to face him, mouth open to speak...when he froze, eyelights blacking out. “no! not again.” Suddenly, his left eye flashed cyan and gold, one arm flinging forward with a warrior's speed, the air flooding with molten hot intent. Papyrus hissed. It didn't hurt in the traditional sense, but it bespoke of great wells of power and desperation. 

He glanced over his shoulder to see an officer with a knife in hand, didn't even look all that imposing, like he used it for opening packages. But said officer was pinned in place by the immense gravity exerted upon him. His eyes went wide and he tried to speak, but before he could, Sans flung him. The movements were quick, precise and practiced. He slammed into a wall with a crunch, left a stain of blood on the street when he landed front first on the cement, and Papyrus was certain he heard a number of bones breaking with every successive hit. Then, as suddenly as it started, Sans dropped him into an unconscious heap. A CHECK showed the human's once massive pool of HP down to a single point. 

“p-paps?” Sans was looking at him in blind confusion, his still prominent aura reeking of vulnerability. Crackling around him like radio static. Unstable. Papyrus nailed the smaller skeleton with a CHECK, baffled briefly at the nonsense spewed back at him, until the incoherent numbers showed familiar, worthless stats. Sans shouldn't have been able to throw the human that hard much less wreck his HP. He didn't just do physical damage, but soul damage, and fleshy beasts were stubbornly resilient in that regard outside of a proper encounter. His 1 ATK should have done a handful of points...not this…

This was the kind of ruin his brother dealt during an episode.

Save for one major difference. The human was alive. 

Summoning a blue bone, Papyrus swiped it through the middle of Sans’ chest, his target frozen by whatever issues were rampaging in that smiling skull. He held tight to the smaller skeleton’s soul and flared his aura, a blizzard pummeling against an arid heat. Cyan sparked anew in Sans’ left socket but it was doused as quickly as it surfaced, crisp eyelights focusing on Papyrus with a newfound sense of reality. The warm magic—protective, dangerous, judgmental—receded. He refrained from shivering.

“I WILL DEAL WITH YOU IN A SECOND,” Papyrus warned. “TRY TO ESCAPE AND YOU WILL REGRET IT DEARLY.” 

“awe, edge, you really do care.”

“MY PATIENCE IS AT ITS LIMIT, DO MIND YOUR TONGUE BEFORE I RIP IT OUT.” He dragged Sans by the soul—not behind him, to the side, three steps away—and examined the police officers. Only one looked cognizant enough to communicate, “TELL YOUR CHIEF THAT IF HE VALUES HIS LIFE AND THAT OF HIS LOVED ONES, TO REMEMBER THAT THE DREEMURS DO NOT TOLERATE BETRAYAL. IT WOULD BE A SHAME FOR THE LAST FEW YEARS OF TRUCE BETWEEN US TO BE UNDONE BECAUSE OF A LITTLE GREED OR BECAUSE A NEW RECRUIT GETS RECKLESS.” The officer nodded, hatred outweighed by self-preservation. Papyrus banished the constructs. “TAKE YOUR MEN AND LEAVE.”

As the conscious officer attempted to figure out where to begin with his heap of bloodied teammates, Papyrus dismissed himself from the scene. Sans trotted behind. 

“heh, uh, hey buddy. short legs here. mind slowing down or better yet, droppin’ the leash?”

Papyrus did not answer until they put a safe distance between them and the hostile meatbags. Once he deemed them secure, he chucked Sans halfway down an alley and pinned him to the ground by increasing his gravity, “IT IS OBVIOUS TO ME THAT IF I ASK WHY YOU WERE ON THIS SIDE OF TOWN OR WHAT EXACTLY YOU DID TO PISS OFF THOSE HUMANS THAT YOU WILL EVADE OR LIE.” He doubled the weight when Sans started to sit up, “I WOULD BET GOLD YOU WOULD PASS OFF THAT LITTLE DISPLAY OF MAGIC AS AN ACCIDENT IF I DEMANDED THAT YOU EXPLAIN HOW THE FUCK A PIECE OF LV 1 FLUFF NEARLY KILLED A HUMAN WITHOUT A SINGLE BULLET OUTSIDE OF AN ECCOUNTER. SO I WILL NOT WASTE TIME OR BREATH. INSTEAD, YOU WILL TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE SO THAT I CAN DRAG YOUR WORTHLESS ASS THERE TO PREVENT FURTHER INCIDENTS TODAY.”

“you wanna walk me home? how romantic. didn’t know you had it in you, edge. sure know how to make a fellow feel special. but uh, pass, i’m not feelin’ it. guess you could say papyrus isn’t my type.” It was obvious Sans used his name for a pun, but Papyrus wasn’t sure how nor did he wish to waste the energy deciphering his babbling nonsense. 

“FUNNY THAT YOU THINK I’M GIVING YOU A CHOICE.”

Sans wheezed as the weight increased more, “b-b-bud. you’re squeezing a bit hard.”

“IT WOULD BE A SHAME IF MY SPELL SLIPPED AND I CRUSHED YOU, WOULDN’T IT? OR MAYBE THAT LITTLE BOX YOU ARE SO PROTECTIVE OVER?”

“d o n ’ t.” 

Papyrus huffed at Sans’ blacked out sockets, “I’VE SEEN CHILDREN MORE FRIGHTENING THAN YOU. NOW, YOU WILL TAKE ME TO YOUR PLACE OF RESIDENCE OR I WILL BE FORCED TO WASTE MORE OF MY TIME AND ENERGY ON YOU.”

His trapped prey struggled for a little longer before going limp, sprawling flat against the cement, limbs akimbo. No endurance. Payrus relished the flutter of Sans’ soul as it failed to hide his utter terror at being held down like this. Unable to move.

“you drive a hard bargain, edge. you win, now lemme up.”

Papyrus grabbed Sans’ wrist before lifting the weight. Phalanges curled around the bare expanse of pearly ulna and radius. “LEAD ON.”

 

A few blocks and convoluted 'wrong turns turned right’ later, Sans led Papyrus up to the front of a ramshackle building near the warehouse district, barely within the scope of Dreemur protection. It was a two-storied apartment, the kind with weathered doors and too many broken locks. Whether the windows on the front were boarded up because of missing glass or for burglary preventative, it was impossible to tell. Compared to the lush Dreemur residence or the respectable apartment Papyrus shared with his brother, this place was a slum. But in Ebott City, it wasn't out of the norm. Normal folks, monster and human alike, who didn't have the connections or the inclinations to involve themselves in ‘gangster’ business, lived in places like these, paying for protection to whoever demanded it.

“i'm home. no need to babysit me. imma big bones that can walk up stairs all by himself.” Sans declared, having managed to undo his tie and the buttons on his vest on the way here, unable to keep his free hand idle. 

Papyrus snorted, “I AM NOT LEAVING UNTIL YOU ARE BEHIND A DOOR. NOW MOVE!”

Sans grumbled about being cursed by unreasonably uptight little brothers, before sluggishly trailing to the back of the apartment and climbing the stairs. He waved idly at a bunny woman peeking out, but when she spotted Papyrus, she yelped and retreated inside. The taller skeleton rolled his eyelights. One of the Snowdin Inn Keeper's daughters. Never the bravest lot, and had a bad habit of forgetting who kept that backwater wasteland from self-destructing. It went from a lawless death trap to one of the safest zones in the Underground because of him. They just tended to focus on how much dust he had to spill to establish order and the fact he was willing to trash anyone who started trouble. Just like Waterfall belonged to Undyne, Snowdin was his turf. Not that it mattered much Above…especially when there were enough years since then and now then that there were school age children who had never known the barrier.

Sans drug his feet the whole way apartment number 26, side-eying Papyrus as he unlocked the door one handed. “now if you let me go,” he began, only to grunt in protest when Papyrus barged in, slamming the door behind them both. “dude, buddy, pal, edgy-edge, there is this thing called boundaries and you're walkin’ all over them. i'm home. i'll even promise to stay here for the rest of the day, and i don't do promises, capiche?” Sans was sweating, brow bones furrowed, his smile strained. If he'd done this to Red, they would be screaming at each other now. Despite the ever growing unease of his tone, the fluff kept that lazy grin going, as if he wasn't pissed that Papyrus was invading his privacy to a dangerous degree. It would make sense for Sans to pick up his things and find a new place to live after this.

“NO. WE'RE HAVING A LITTLE OVERDUE CHAT,” he replied, searching for a lamp. There was a bizarre whirring noise somewhere. “WHERE THE FUCK IS A LIGHT? CAN'T SEE SHIT IN HERE.”

“i don't have any lamps. i like natural light better.” Sans said, wrist limp in Papyrus’ grip. “whole underground thing.”

“IF YOU LIKE THE SUN SO GODDAMN MUCH, WHY ARE ALL THE WINDOWS COVERED?” The taller skeleton snarked. Safer this way, but the room bore a musty sourness only found in rooms kept shut up and dark for too long. He ripped a heavy curtain to the side, disliking that he had to sacrifice security to see where he was going. With the room lit up, Papyrus at last released Sans and addressed the room. His jaw dropped. 

Sans’ apartment was a horror. Socks were literally everywhere, empty bottles and crushed balls of paper littered the floor. His bed wasn't so much a bed but a bare mattress shoved in a corner with a crumpled shirt thrown over top. There was a desk dominating one of the walls, covered in masses of paper and bits of machine parts. A half-disassembled radio collected dust by an overflowing trash bin. The only part of the room that looked somewhat clean was the kitchen, but given the number of books stacked on the counters and filling the open cabinets, he wasn't using it for cooking, it was instead a makeshift library. How the hell did Sans work on fiddly machines and read books if he didn't have a lamp? Did he use his Glow for everything? Skeletons could manifest light by pushing their magic to the surface, the 'glow’ radiating from between their joints. It was usually an instinctive response to certain stimuli, and mimicked a human blush in the light given that only the flush of colored magic beneath the bones was visible. It took practice but it was possible to glow intentionally and not just during spikes of emotion.

“THIS PLACE IS DISGUSTING!”

Sans rolled his eyelights at his revulsion, “rude. you're the one that wanted to talk here. wasn't expectin’ guests.

Papyrus caught sight at last of what was making the whirring noise. His expression went flat, “That is a trash tornado.” If Sans was surprised by the drop in his volume, he didn't show it, instead he shrugged. “Did you create that monstrosity on purpose?”

“nah, have in the past, but uh, fred over there is just magic overflow. you know how that goes.”

The fact that either Sans had the magic reserves to warrant it manifesting unconsciously as it flooded his mana lines beyond capacity, or literally used his magic so little that it had nowhere else to go, was just another reason not to trust this terribly mimic of his brother. Because both were potentially true. Skeletons especially were prone to overflow given their magic regeneration and naturally high reserves, but Papyrus rarely experienced it unless laid up from battle wounds. Red, however, did. His lazy sibling once explained that he didn't have the stamina to keep up with his own reserves, that short of exhausting himself magically every night, that he was bound to experience manifestations when asleep.

“You named it.”

“why not? he's like a pet.”

Papyrus made a pained-noise then stalked deeper into the apartment. The bathroom was in a similar state as the kitchen, a couple towels on the floor, no curtain on the bath, but otherwise clean from disuse. Sans followed him, complaining, but Papyrus was on a mission, covering as much ground as possible. He opened cabinets, peeked into the fridge and pantry. But the smaller skeleton did little to stop his rampage until he tried opening his closet. 

Papyrus nearly forced Sans into an encounter when blue magic closed around his soul. “alright. house tour over. i'm a slob and prefer books to food. that a crime?” 

“YOU'RE HIDING SOMETHING!”

“everyone has secrets, bud. mine aint harming nobody, so you can stop fussin’.” Sans dropped him by the door, foolishly releasing the spell. Papyrus took advantage of the mistake by tossing a few bone daggers at Sans (which be dodged as expected) and using the hesitation to storm to the closet. He threw it open and saw...nothing. No coats. No trash. Just black. It was...eerie. Before he could reach out into the alluring dark, Sans slammed the door shut, “i have a lotta patience, but you're pushin’ it, edge.”

“What was that?”

“nuthin’ cept more magic overflow.”

Sans’ magic soaked the room, including the closet, but the shadowed space felt off, cold in the same way as fear ticking up your spine. “YOU’RE LYING. I DO NOT KNOW ABOUT WHAT, BUT YOU'RE HIDING SOMETHING. SECRETS FROM MONSTERS LIKE YOU IS HOW MONSTERS LIKE MY BROTHER GET KILLED.”

“look, you’ve seen everythin’. i like readin’ and takin’ apart technology, see how the bits work. put ‘em back together in interestin’ ways. my magic likes actin’ up. cleanin’ aint a priority. there’s all my secrets laid out, pal.”

Papyrus summoned a circles of bones around them, from ceiling to floor. Trapping them both. “Look at you. Ready to run. Quick with an excuse. You may have everyone else charmed by your incompetence but I will not falter so easily. I will be back here in a week. If you have fled or failed to clean this hovel to acceptable, livable standards, I will take it upon myself to make sure you understand your place.”

“i’m the one who lives here, why the hell do you think you can…”

“Because unlike my brother, the tiny human or the Don, I won't ask to put a collar on you. There will be no offer. I will train you out of these atrocious habits like I did Red and keep your weakness from ruining the Dreemur name. The fact you waltz around without a care to the implications of your actions is dangerous and insulting. I would break no promises and defy no orders in doing so. The Don might even reward me for being the one to end this game of yours.”

Sans opened his mouth, closed it again with an audible click, his face flushed with magic, “you too? what is with monsters and threatenin’ to collar me. it's like everyone here has a weird fetish.”

Papyrus clicked his teeth in disbelief, “You do not understand.”

“red keeps callin’ me a runaway pet and askin’ 'bout my old master. i don't have a master. never had. and him and tori always made it sound so...sooo…” The way he deepened in color told him exactly what he meant. 

“It is not uncommon for the relationship to be established as or become intimate. A lv 1 monster would either have been groomed from childhood to fill a companionship role or collared young for other useful talents that would have been wasted if allowed to dust.” Papyrus narrowed his sockets. “This is common knowledge. Excuse me for not believing it possible that you found some rock to hide under for your whole life that would have made you ignorant to your own culture.”

“jus’ never came up is all.”

More evasion. More questions without answers. Sans looked to the side, hands buried in his pockets, hands curling around the odd little object so desperately wanted to keep away from the humans. For a moment, brief and bitter, Papyrus saw his brother in Sans. Not just similarities, but true parallels, as if he were looking back into the past, older, wiser, seeing his elder sibling before the lv and drinking nearly stole away the last of his fragile hope.

“I considered letting those vermin dust you.” Papyrus confessed without preamble, no hint of apology in his words. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you and your ignorance plaguing my life. The fact I am offering Mercy is quite generous of someone as great and terrible as I.”

“...you wouldn’t have ever done that. let someone dust me in front of you.”

Papyrus growled, his temper rocketing, “WHAT GIVES YOU THAT DELUSION?”

The smaller skeleton peeked up, “we may never see eye-to-eye, but, you’re honorable in your own way. could say i trust you more than most not to stab me in the back.”

“THAT IS FOOLISH. I DESPISE YOUR EXISTENCE. THE MOMENT THE DREEMURS HAVE NO NEED OF YOU, I WILL HAPPILY DISPOSE OF YOUR PRESENCE.”

“heh. I know i’m right, because aside from the constant death threats, you’re a lot like my little brother. his belief is that everyone could be a good person if they just tried...and i’d like to think that ‘bout you. ‘bout everyone really. not that i’m always the best at that.” 

The puzzle pieces snapped together in Papyrus’ head in an instant. Filled in by Sans himself. His teeth bared at the proverbial bared throat. The unwarranted trust he displayed early on despite how much more lv he had compared to Red. The way Sans’ broke when he saw Papyrus almost stabbed. The little, pitiful ‘paps’ he uttered in his confusion. “HE’S DEAD, ISN’T HE?” His happy, goody foolishness ended by someone with a knife. Probably shanked by a mugger in an alley because he was too weak to think about fighting back.

“yeah,” Sans whispered, but...Papyrus frowned. He couldn’t tell if that was the truth or further deception. His body language was...odd. Sans laughed without humor, “so if we’re sharin’ ‘bout our bros, how ‘bout you tell me why your brother waves around a pistol instead of slinging magic like you. sure, you got a gun, but you never once reached for it in either the fights i’ve seen you in, and he is always holdin’ it when things get ugly.”

Papyrus crossed his arms, “THAT IS NONE OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS!”

“now who’s keepin’ secrets?”

“I DON’T HAVE TO ANSWER TO YOU!” He curled his hands into fists, the urge to smack Sans almost greater than his superior self-control. Temper. He had to watch his temper. It was...harder now, but he had to. Papyrus sucked in a deep breath. “If you want to know so badly, ask him yourself.” Maybe he’d actually tell Sans. Because he certainly never explained shit to his little brother. Why he rarely fought when they were Underground, and when he did, it was always to the death. Why he learned to shoot guns with more avid interest than in blasting those laser cannons of his. Red liked to posture and threaten, but at the end of the day, he wasn’t going to grind his heel in the dust of his enemies unless given direct orders to kill. He was good at it. He hit like a truck despite those abysmal stats, ripping apart foes with startling ease if he was lost in a thrall. But...it was like he didn’t trust his own magic. 

Preferred to let it build up and overflow than spar.

And it. Pissed. Papyrus. Off.

So much potential wasted. For what? Laziness? Fear?

“I WILL BE BACK IN A WEEK. TRY NOT TO DIE BETWEEN NOW AND THEN.”

“got it, boss,” Sans drawled, sounding so much like Red that it was uncanny.

He flung open the door and stormed out.

The Great and Terrible Papyrus was nothing like his brother. And at the end of the day, that was better for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Work got crazy and this chapter was longer than normal, so it took a while to write. On top of that, I published an angst/horror kustard oneshot. +self promotes+ Anyway, we shall return next chapter to our unreliable narrator Red, who appears to have a few secrets of his own he hasn't shared, as well as different perspectives on their own behavior. So what really went down Underground? ^_-
> 
> This chapter is an answer to quite a number of questions prompted by myself as well as readers. (And yes, paps is the one who starts properly solving mysteries and answering questions. Because he is plagued by Sanses who like secrets way too much.) Always feel free to submit prompts! 
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/). If anyone is interested, take a looksie at my latest [WIP post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179434308307/current-wips-and-potential-future-fics) and find out what is in the wings and what I am currently writing but haven't published yet! I post chapter previews if that's your jam. 
> 
> And thank you, every one of you. My gosh it seems every chapter has a bigger and bigger response and it's so great. You guys are awesome.


	9. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Similar does not mean the same, and different does not mean without similarities. 
> 
> Alt. Title: Fish don't like jazz

“ABOUT TIME YOU CAME HOME! WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?”

Red barely stepped into the shared apartment when Papyrus’ voice slapped him upside the skull. He covered throbbing sockets and groaned, wishing the throbbing ache to pass so he could deal with his obnoxiously loud sibling. There lacked venom in the other skeleton’s voice, which meant Papyrus wasn’t angry, but he himself wasn’t in any mood for continued screaming, well-meaning or not. “angel above, indoor voice, papyrus,” he mumbled, kicking off his shoes by the door and shuffling towards the lit kitchen. There, scowling at a pot of what was no doubt cold spaghetti, was his brother. “evenin’. surprised yer still up.” 

“IT IS TWO IN THE MORNING, Red!”

“exactly. t’night one of them not sleepin’ nights?”

Papyrus swung around, “You reek.”

“i’ve been workin’, sorry fer not smellin’ of roses, boss,” Red didn’t like the look in those eyesockets. The tension straining through his brother’s overly straight posture. “wuz up wit yer?”

“HOW DOES WORK INVOLVE YOU COMING HOME SMELLING OF CIGARS AND WHISKEY?”

Browbones furrowed together, agitation shifting into concern. His brother might not like him smoking in their home, but generally didn’t harass him too much if he came home smelling of the stuff. “i wuz followin’ up on leads at grillbz. like i said, work.” Red rarely dragged himself through the front door at a consistent time, but unless he had established plans, Papyrus never spoke up about it. They were grown skeletons and knew their jobs could keep the other away for days at a time. Before he could elaborate, there was a loud crack as his sibling chucked the wooden spoon at the wall, splattering sauce onto the stove and counters. Red groaned, “fucks sake, why yer so pissed at me all the sudden? i’m workin’ the same job as I been fer the past week! special assignment from the don.”

Red didn’t move closer, eyelights narrowed as he waited for Papyrus to react. It’d been a while since he had one of these episodes. Something had him in a tizzy. Maybe training went poorly or some skeezeball dusted one of the monsters in their protection when he was around. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, ready to move should his brother start throwing things. 

It was a long, quiet minute before the taller skeleton sucked in a ragged breath, aura a pulsing winter gale. “If I find out you’ve taken up drinking again I’ll—”

“yer’ll what?” Red growled, more out of annoyance than insult. The chill grew colder. Deadlier. Sweat beaded on his skull. Today was definitely one of the bad days. “angel above, i dunno who pissed in yer pasta sauce today, but yer bein’ an ass. care to drag the hornet nest outta yer pelvis and stop tryin’ to intimidate me?” He grabbed his hat and chucked it onto the table, “i jus’ wanna sleep.”

His brother snarled but didn’t lunge at him for smarting off. He glanced to the side, shoulders pinched, “Sans.”

Red frowned, “yeah?”

Papyrus grabbed the pot of cold spaghetti and dropped it into the sink with a clang, the noxious noise ringing like a shotgun blast to a church bell. “NOT YOU...the other one,” he said, gripping the counter with gloved claws—plain black instead of well-loved scarlet.

“what’d the level bait do now?” Thus far his brother acted like Sans was like that thieving white dog who took to stealing bones from their traps in the Underground. Irritating, but ultimately beneath him, a bug to squish if there was a convenient opportunity. Of course the dog, like Sans, had a knack for wriggling his way out of trouble, disappearing right before Papyrus started to shriek profanities. “hafta be pretty big to get yer this worked up.”

“...I am acting perfectly normal. Nothing bothers the Great and Terrible Papyrus.”

“right. right. yer just ridin’ my case fer giggles,” Red drawled. He mopped his skull with a handkerchief. “i aint been drownin’ my woes in a bottle. sure, had a drink, but…boss. paps.”

Papyrus straightened, “DID YOU KNOW SANS HAD A BROTHER?”

“er, yeah? fucker had a whole skit at mettaton's 'bout the guy.” Also, he mentioned outright at the Don's house that Papyrus reminded him of his own younger sibling. Details. “wut does that hafta to do wit yer grillin’ me?”

“THAT LITTLE IDIOT COMPARED ME TO HIM TODAY.”

Red snorted, “that is what has yer knickers in a twist? bein’ compared to a cream puff? dunno where he's keepin’ the guy but—”

“HE'S DEAD. AT LEAST THAT IS WHAT SANS CLAIMS.”

“dead? uh, boss, mind if i ask yer when and why yer had a chat wit the fluff fer longer than five seconds? he's soft on yer and all but…”

“WHEN I WAS AT HIS APARTMENT TODAY. IF YOU'D COME HOME AT A DECENT HOUR YOU'D ALREADY KNOW THAT.”

Red blinked, rather awake now, “yer were where now?” 

“PAY ATTENTION! I DO HATE REPEATING MYSELF, BROTHER. AS I SAID, I WAS AT HIS APARTMENT WHEN WE HAD THIS CONVERSATION. THAT ASIDE, I HAVE DISCOVERED THAT YOU PITIFUL COPY IS INCAPABLE OF PROPERLY CARING FOR HIMSELF. OF ALL THE TRAITS TO ACTUALLY HAVE IN COMMON WITH YOU.”

“hey!”

“SHUT UP! I’M TALKING. YOU WANTED ME TO TALK, SO LISTEN. NOT ONLY IS SANS AN UNBEARABLE ANNOYANCE BUT HE IS ALSO A SLOB OF AN UNPARALLELED DEGREE. HE HAS A TRASH TORNADO!”

“nice story, but uh, how’d yer find out where he lived?”

Papyrus huffed, releasing his death grip on the pot, “I demanded he take me to his place of residence, of course. This was after I so generously relieved him from the clutches of some human guardsmen.” His stare remained fixed in the sink. “During the encounter he mistook me for his brother…” Worn leather gloves creaked. “...he called me Boss when I left his apartment.” He shoved away from the sink, fists clenched into balls, stride predatory. “Something isn’t right, Red. I...my head hurts...”

Long fingers pressed to his temples, expression clearly telling Red that the conversation was over for now. Deciding it would be best to broach the subject again in the morning, he left his brother to sort himself out in the kitchen. The whole situation tasted of spoiled ketchup and left his skull buzzing. 

The morning discussion never came.

Red woke up to his alarm at an indecently early hour, peeled out of bed and dressed, all before Papyrus would normally attempt to break down the door. Yet when he arrived in the kitchen, the younger skeleton was nowhere in sight, a note left on the counter. He was off at Undyne's. Red crumpled the paper. No mention of breakfast pasta or being home at a certain time to chat. The situation with Sans really did work him up more than he let on. At least he had the sense of mind not to start tossing bullets, because having a 2 a.m. brawl over a drinking problem he didn't entertain much anymore wasn't Red's idea of a good time.

Not anymore.

Checking himself over, Red confirmed he was set for the day, and headed out, an odd discomfort settling in his bones.

 

The day progressed the same as the past week. Red went to the Don, reported what he learned regarding the shooting, before pouring over further leads. Each day the informants brought in new names, new snippets of what happened that day. But the longer time progressed, the more muddled the information became, witness accounts even less reliable. Some claimed the shooter was tall and dressed as a male, running off shortly after being knocked off his feet by the overturned cart. Others said no, that it was obviously a female disguised in men's clothes, and that she tried to make pursuit but both her and the ‘victims’ vanished down an alleyway. There was even one claim that the shooter was working with the mean cream vendor to kidnap Red but it went disastrously wrong.

All roads led to the same dead end.

It was obvious that no one knew jack all...except possibly the man of honor himself. Red considered chasing down Sans earlier, but since the shooting, the skeleton made himself scarce, which was one of the reasons why Red was baffled by the revelation that Papyrus even saw him, much less talked to him. The self-proclaimed freelancer wasn't picking up shifts at the hot dog stand or at Grillby's, and though he loathed the idea of returning to Mettaton's for any reason, he noted that the comedian wasn't scheduled for any shows.

Thus found Red in a predicament. It was late afternoon, his potential leads run dry, leaving him with two options. Reporting to Asgore that the investigation was a bust (that whole rebellion thing was looking more and more like paranoia) or tracking down Sans to shake him properly. Red chose option B. It involved less disturbed conversations about how this single gunman was a sign of a massive movement to overthrow the Don.

If Sans couldn’t offer further insight, then he was going to need to take more drastic measures involving traps and a long con. Smoking out rats took time.

“now if i wuz sans, where would i be?” Red mumbled, rolling an unlit cigar between his phalanges, eyelights flicking across the relatively empty park. “If i wuz a smart piece of fluff i’d be holed up at home. but the level bait aint too smart when it comes to self-preservation.” He clicked his teeth as his thoughts shifted. ‘what would i do? where would i go?’ Not at Grillby’s. Not at the usual spots. Nowhere people would know to look. Someplace he could disappear even if he had a stalker out for his dust. “that’s stupid. he’d never go back there. it’s full of mindless crazies. how would he even get back in?”

Then again, when did Sans ever do anything sane and rational?

“fuck if i’m goin’ back under that dirt heap,” Red muttered. He’d rather face Asgore with empty hands than go Underground again. All that place was good for was tossing the Fallen who were too lost in their own LV to function. They were little better than rapid animals, and usually worth too much EXP to safely cull without risking the stability of whoever dusted them. Red chuckled darkly, choosing to not think about how Asgore handled the Fallen before they came Above.

He shoved the cigar between his teeth and went for another lap around the park.

 

Papyrus didn’t return home that evening.

He called, informing Red that he was indeed alive, but hung up before Red could question his strange behavior. His secret hating brother was keeping secrets. Agitated, he decided to abandon the empty apartment, letting restless legs take him down dim streets. Red couldn’t settle his magic. The prevailing wrongness from this morning persisted and itched like a shawl of venomous spiders, webs clinging between joints and tiny legs skittering across bone. Not even smoking the third cigar of the day chased away the unease. Red crushed the cherry beneath a heel and exhaled the final breath of smoke with a growl. His eyelights flicked to the sky. No moon in sight, the stars clotted out by clouds. The air was thick with the aborted promise of rain, humidity a sticky weight chased and swirled by the occasional gust of wind. Shadows melted into the cloak of night, the dawn a far away dream.

Red was ready to call it quits and pretend to sleep for a few hours in bed when movement caught his attention. A shuffling form. A gleam of white against black. Out from an alleyway stumbled Sans, head bowed, clothes even more askew than normal. He wore practical shoes instead of lady slippers. 

“wut yer doin’ in the middle of the street at this time a night?” Red barked, raw nerves heating into anger. An exposed copper wire burning hot enough to melt. Sans didn’t jump at the sound of his voice, merely glanced up, wriggling his fingers at Red in greeting. His eyelights were will o’ wisps dancing in the unknowable dark. Hazy, wide and shaky, as if he couldn’t keep them formed and focused.

“lookin’ for a bridge!” Sans stated cheerily, words slurred even more than normal. As Red drew closer, beneath the familiar tang of tomatoes, he caught the unmistakable odor of human liquor and cheap cigarettes. “round here somewhere.” The FreeExp was utterly sloshed. 

“wut do yer wanna a bridge fer?” Red asked, close enough now to see the strain upon Sans’ glow-flushed skull, feel the ambient warmth radiating from feverish bones. His own magic stirred. Cold. Cruel. It whispered how easy it would be to take advantage. If he couldn’t satisfy the yearning for more exp by dusting the skeleton because of promises and honor, he could hurt the fluff a different way. Relish in cracking him apart like overheated glass. How simple would it be to coax an agreement from those flawless teeth? It was the way of the Underground. The way of Ebott City. It was the way of monsters and men alike. The weak were overtaken by the strong. 

Red blinked and clamped down on his twisting lv. A good thing given how Sans reached out and clung to him, using Red as a prop to keep standing straight. Angel Above, his magic was everywhere. Formless. Seeking. Helpless. Sans chuckled, the sound like the creaking of abandoned gallows, “i wanna bridge ‘cause the bottom of rivers are harder to dodge! m’no good at swimmin’ neither.” He stiffened, eying his doppleganger from skull to toes. Sans patted Red’s face in the manner that only drunken morons could call earnest, “s’okay, buddy, justa joke. heh. thought you’d ‘preciate a lil dark humor. but you’re as quiet as the grave. hehe. why the grave face, mister silent but red-ly?”

“that last one didn’t even make sense,” Red deadpanned.

“tch. joke killer.”

“that one wuz dead on arrival.”

Sans snorted and released his hold on Red, stumbling back a step, “nice one. there’s that sense of humor. now if you’ll excuse me, i’ve got an appointment with some fish. heard they like jazz and i’ve a trom-bone solo they need to hear.” 

Before he could scuttle off and do who knows what, Red grabbed the back of his shirt, “no bridges or fish.”

“you’re not my brother, youse can’t tell me what to do!”

“nah, but little birdie told me that a certain tall and cranky skeleton reminds yer of yer brother. he’ll order yer around till yer blue—bluer—to the face.”

“i told you that!” Sans swatted at him weakly. “I dun wanna be yelled at by edge. s’not the same. he...they’re not the same...edge acts like he wants to kick me in the mouth.”

“‘cause he does. so do i tiba-honest.”

“nu-uh, you wanna shoot me,” Sans laid a hand over where Red kept his pistol. “...wouldn’t mind if you did. could say it was the gunman from before. but you won’t. you’re not like me. well, not as much me as me. you’re like edge.” The FreeExp continued with the grabby hands and practically crawled onto Red. It was like participating in the worlds most one-sided hug. “hum. hey red, iffin i remember correctly, youse owe me a promise. i dun like promises. but i know what i want. i...i want you to promise...i want you...that you’ll...hmmmnzzzz.” Sans went utterly boneless—heh—in Red’s arms.

An echo of a memory popped back to the forefront.

_“You drink yourself stupid every night, and force me to drag you home from that grease pit. You could die, Sans.”_

_“would that be a bad thing?”_

He looked down at the skeleton leaned against him and hit him with an in-depth CHECK.

 

Sans  
Lv 1 | HP .5/1 | ATK 1 | DEF 1  
EXP ???  
*Ambivalent—doesn’t consider you a threat  
*Threat Level: None (incapacitated)  
*first time asleep in days  
*he has lost his way

 

“yer a lucky sonuvabitch. hope yer know that,” Red griped, maneuvering Sans so that he could drag the other skeleton home. If a certain anger-management-issues-on-legs hadn’t snuck off to sulk all day then he would know where the fluff lived and drop his pelvis off there. But he supposed it made some cosmic irony that he would have to drag Sans to his own home after Papyrus invaded Sans’. Sure, he could take him to the Dreemur residence, but that too far away and he was exhausted. “i’m gonna kick yer ass when yer wake up in the mornin’. mebbe bash around some pots and pans. get boss so pissy he’ll hit a new octave. bet that’ll feel great wit a hangover.”

Just as he feared was happening when he realized his life debt to Sans, he didn’t hate the FreeExp anymore. Might even say he didn’t want the idiot dead.

 

When Red finally returned home, he was sweating and growling half the expletives in the book. He’d use them all but it was too much work to think of them right now. Instead he put that conserved energy into hauling Sans into the apartment and towards the sofa. He grit out a few more creative swears. If Papyrus came home and saw the level bait in the living room, he wasn’t sure what he’d do, or what Sans would do. Hell, it was better if Sans wasn't left unmonitored for any length of time until he was sober enough to reconsider performing for fish at the bottom of the river. The skeleton seemed like cinder blocks tied to the feet kind of swimmer.

Readjusting his copy, he pulled him into his room and dropped him on his bed. “puke and i’ll break yer fingers,” he muttered, wondering if his good deed for the year quota was met. Red eventually decided to pull off Sans’ shoes. There. Done. Why wasn’t he moving? He decided it was the undone tie bothering him and tossed it over a chair. Maybe he should take his wallet and keys out of his pockets, or make sure they were there in the first place. He was so blitzed that it was possible he was mugged on his way into that alley and would have never noticed. Red was in the middle of looping a phalange around Sans’ keys when a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“fuck, look, i wuz just…”

Blank eye sockets stare up at him, unseeing, “...gaster?”

“...yeah?” Sans never used his surname.

Whatever rise in consciousness Sans experienced had passed, and the skeleton’s hand fell away, and he curled up into a small ball on the sheets.

“fine. sleep on yer house keys.”

Red pulled off his jacket and flopped into the chair. 

The unease he felt all day had yet to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Red's got a bad feeling and it hasn't gone away.
> 
> What is Edge up to? Why is Sans wasted? Why can't Red catch a break?
> 
> This chapter did not want to be written. But here it is! Between working on it on the ride to work on the train as well as sneaking in time on my computer during lunch, it has been completed. Thank you guys for your patience. 
> 
> if you're interested in seeing what I have working in the wings and want to have input on my next short story, then feel free to check out this [blog post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179877833392/help-me-choose) on my tumblr. I've also started my first 2nd POV fic onsite called "Hello Sunshine". If reader fics are your thing, hey, give it a looksie~
> 
> I'd like to drop a shout out to Peramia who is quite the detective. I adore seeing people theorize and puzzle together the clues I leave in my fic. It's awesome.


	10. Does a drunk mind speak a sober heart?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** Sans is surprisingly bad at sleeping.
> 
> Alt. title: Nobody is happy and Red’s too sober for this mess

_“no. no. p-please nononono.”_

Red jerked awake, the haze of sleep barely upon him when Sans began to mutter and shift. He groaned, cracking his neck, the brief time spent propped up in the chair enough to misalign his spine. Before he could fully process the situation, Sans started to thrash, his soul a blinding beacon through his clothes. Magic suffused the room like a lightning strike, bringing Red to alertness in an instant. Sweat beaded along his skull. His own magic rose to the surface in response, ready to engage, to fight, to smother out this sweltering heat for daring to assail him with its presence. Instinct had him on his feet, eyelights mere pinpricks, something between fury and possession driving him towards the bed. It would be easy to eliminate the threat as it lay vulnerable. (Angel above why did that scalding warmth tempt him to bask in its glow, to plead for forgiveness and beg for redemption? Why did it make him want to FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT?)

Just as he started to form a bone construct, Red regained his senses.

He shivered. No, he shook. Why was he shaking?

_Guilt. Shame. Fear. BadBadBad. Run. Hide. StandYourGround. Anger. Grief. Trapped. WhyWhyWhy?_

THUMP!

Red watched Sans roll off the bed and land on the floor, tangled up in the sheets he managed to wrap around himself like a cacoon. Still, the skeleton did not wake, continuing to mutter and writhe, limbs pinned together as he tried to fight the nightmares hounding him. Heat climbed hotter. Magic overflow. If this continued, who knew what would spontaneously occur. Could be something as minor as levitating a chair, maybe creating a few constructs, or as severe as throwing Red through the door and down the stairs (Red may have done that to Papyrus once or twice). 

“oi, wake up! yer magic is gettin’ all handsy wit my shit,” Red groused. This, combined with a solid nudge with a foot to the ribs was enough to make lights spring into those blank sockets, and for Sans to draw in a strangled gasp. Unfortunately, the magic receded back to its owner violently, catching Red in its flux. His soul pinged blue and he was yanked down to the floor in an instant, chin bashing against the wooden boards, body sent sprawling on top of the FreeExp. Soft, Sans was not. Even bundled up in a ball of blankets.

Red sputtered out a flurry of curses as he propped himself up, now entangled in the mess on the floor. For some reason, Sans’ soul remained bright, providing a pale glow to see by as he floundered for freedom. “think i lost some hp,” Red muttered, working his jaw, clawed fingers catching on the fibers of a blanket. It also didn’t help that Sans kept a hold of him with blue magic. Great. Just great. “level bait, care to leggo ‘fore i pop a hole in yer skull?” Crimson eyelights flickered down. In his struggles, Sans wriggled half-way out of his clothes, giving him a show of iliac crests, some lower spine and a hint of ribs. Though, it might have been the shadows playing tricks, but something looked off about one of those barely exposed ribs peeking at him.

The blue magic lifted. 

“hng. wu...red?” He glanced over to see hazy eyelights quivering in heavy-lidded sockets. His breathing remained fast, sweat dripping off his skull as if he just ran a mile. Nightmares sucked. Drinking when one had nightmares didn’t help. Especially when one woke up just as disoriented as when they passed out. Sans couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour or two, and Red had no idea how deep in the bottle the other skeleton was before he decided bridges were required for nighttime recreation. 

“the one an’ only,” Red managed to free himself enough to lean back on his heels. His voice was thick from sleep, “done accostin’ me fer t’night?”

Sans only groaned in response. The other skeleton huffed and hauled him up, once more dropping Sans onto the bed. Except this time, Sans was conscious. Limp and useless, but conscious. “m’still dreamin’ aint i?” Sans asked the pillow when Red dumped him face first onto it.

“if yer are, then this is a shitty dream an’ i’d like out.”

“better than the las’ one. much better.” He rolled onto his back and caught Red’s arm before he could retreat back to his chair. “know how i know it aint real?”

Red let out a groan, “naw. why?” Sans was already an obnoxious chatterbox when he was in a mood. Apparently drinking made him real touchy on top of being glib and stupid. Bashing together those pots and pans was becoming more and more appealing with every word the numbskull spouted. 

“‘cause the real red woulda left me on the floor.”

“really?” Sans must have incredibly vivid nightmares if he thought he was still in dreamland. Given how hard a time he himself had differentiating between real and sake during an episode, he could empathize. A nicer monster would have properly woken Sans up instead of leading him on, letting him think he was in some tangible delusion. Sans was stuck with Red. The touchy skeleton fiddled with his hand, the magic between their joints mingling in a pleasant manner. “now why yer dreamin’ ‘bout ol’ me anyway? happen often?”

Sans laughed in that bitter manner from before and dropped his arm, “go ‘way.”

“now why would i do that? yer the one that got all grabby.”

“you just wanna mock me...like always...”

Red snorted, “cry me a river, princess. yer the one that spent a year gettin’ yer giggles outta pissin’ me off. believe yer even told frisk yer thought it wuz hilarious to provoke me.” He paused, recalling the conversation he eavesdropped upon. Maybe it was habit (or some knee-jerk reflex to keep himself sane during the gory days stuck Underground) but Red grinned, a chuckle escaping him. “and i learned yer wanted to lick ketchup off my—”

He was cut off by Sans rolling over and grabbing the front of his shirt, “shuddup!”

“ooh, interestin’. still easy to rile wit hotcat talk, eh? makes a skeleton think the lady doth protest too much.”

Sans released him with a grunt of disgust, “def'’nitely dreamin’. you don’t read. you mug little ol’ ladies for fun.”

“oi! wut is wit yer and this judgemental shit yer keep pullin’?” Red’s lv grumbled. He reminded himself of that weary, empty way Sans looked when they were in that bolt hole. The feel of his magic. Sans, for all his airs, loathed himself, and seemed to find his doppelgänger a suitable outlet. Prick. At least Red was upfront when he hated someone. “it’s like yer lookin’ fer someone to smack yer in the yap.”

“heh. mebbe i am.” It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t said with audacious braggadocio nor heated invitation. Red’s crusty, cold soul echoed the sentiment like a forgotten memory. 1 HP. Easy to lose. Hard to keep. “it doesn’t matter. nuthin’ matters anymore. i’m better at the whole givin’ up gig. not like anyone here cares.”

“wutta ‘bout frisk?” The words escape him before he can clamp his teeth shut.

Sans laughs in a broken, spiteful manner, eyelights gleaming a sickly blend of cyan and gold, the colors dancing but never fusing into a gradient of green, “it’s all their fault.” Red frowned as the other skeleton rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. The kid adored Sans. Loved him, even. Was willing to flaunt their familial status over Red to protect the Free Exp. Yet—

 

_“I...I thought you hated me. That if you weren’t dead, that you…”_

_Sans sighed, skull falling forward, “kid, buddy, pal, bucko. i admit, i aint happy, but i don’t hate you.”_

_Frisk took a step forward, steel in their stance, “But you don’t believe me. Do you?”_

_In the most serious manner Red ever heard Sans speak in, he replied, “i have no reason to.”_

_“I thought we were friends!”_

_“yeah, well, so did i.”_

_“I never broke my promise.”_

_“which one?”_

_“Neither. Please, I keep telling you what happened, what I know. It’s the truth. Why won’t you believe me? I care about you Sans. I’d do anything to make things right if I knew how.”_

_“a n y t h i n g ?”_

 

_“Sans is a friend. I believe my mother has informed you that no harm is to come to him from within the Family. I would advise you to avoid accidents like this in the future.”_

 

_“Sans isn’t a threat to myself or my family,” Frisk said. The flower in their arms scoffed, leaves crossing. Huh. Interestin’. They tugged at a petal before continuing, “He’s a lazy jokester that likes to avoid fights at any cost. Mom and dad want to protect him because I do not wish him hurt. That. Is. It. Do we have an understanding?”_

 

—the defensiveness was starkly one sided. 

Red flopped back into the chair, unable to chase the disquiet from his chest.

 

BAM!

Both skeletons lurched up at the sound of a slamming door. Red was instantly on his feet, while Sans, in all his lacking self-preservation skills, groaned and tried to shove his head under a pillow. Crimson eyelights skipped to the curtained window. No light peeking through. Meant that it wasn’t even dawn yet. Given how shitty he felt, it had to be close, since he barely slept at all. Voices jumbled. Both too loud for the early morning quiet, yet low enough that no words crept through the floorboards with any clarity. 

Papyrus was home. And he brought Undyne.

“stay here, level bait,” Red ordered. The last thing he needed was his brother seeing Sans right after they had a lovely argument centered around him. An unintelligible mumble was the only confirmation he received before he slipped through the door into the hallway. It was quiet now. Maybe fish bitch left? Creeping forward, he snuck a glance into the sitting room and nearly groaned at what he saw.

“what the fuck?”

Red flinched, skull jerking to the side upon hearing Sans’ breathy exclamation. For Angel’s sake, did the Free Exp literally have to do the exact opposite he was told at all times, even when following directions would be to his own benefit? The burnt rims of his sockets and sickly ashen hue to white bones practically screamed horrible hangover. Lazy fucker was always lounging and napping. Why not now? 

“git back in my room, moron,” Red hissed, but Sans stepped forward, eyelights gone. “he’s a grownass adult. he can make his own bad choices.”

“but undyne she…? what about alyphs?” It was almost pathetic how protective he was of Red’s little brother. No, correction, it was entirely pathetic. “i don’t understand. you’re just gonna let them?”

“eh, mebbe not on the couch. i sit there. now git, ‘fore yer ‘cause trouble,” Red shoved him back towards the bedroom, before swaggering forward, expression settling into a sneer. If he was honest, this didn’t sit well with him either, but for utterly different reasons than Mr. Judgement Day. Thus he lifted his chin and approached the scene that he woke up to. One that included Papyrus and Undyne in a notably compromised position. At least their clothes were still on and nobody had their souls out...yet. “oi, i wuz fuckin’ sleepin’ asshole. didja really hafta drag fish bitch here fer that shit? last i checked she had a whole house.”

The pair broke apart, both glaring as Red used a little magic to flick on the lights. 

“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY, RUNT?” Huh, was he blushing? His nasal bridge was flushed pink, his crimson tinted magic staining bone. Naw. His intent was pissed, not embarrassed. And if he looked close, Papyrus’ eyelights were fuzzy, unfocused. Red breathed in deep, catching the scent of cheap spirits and spice. He scoffed.

“aint this funny. go on accusin’ me of dippin’ too deep into the bottle and here yer are drinkin’ away whatever smarts are left in yer skull.”

“UNLIKE YOU I KNOW MY LIMITS AND DO NOT NEED TO BE PEELED OFF THE FLOOR OF WHICHEVER ESTABLISHMENT I CHOOSE TO IMBIBE WITHIN.”

Undyne growled, “Piss off, punk, we’re busy.” Her yellowed smile stretched wide, “And by the look of it, so were you. Knew you were boning him.”

“WHAT?”

Wait, what? Red glanced over his shoulder to see Sans peeking around the corner, a bedraggled wreck. Given how he dressed on the daily, it was easy to assume he’d just thrown on his clothes in haste after they spent a night on the floor. He flipped them both the bird. Could anything else go weird today?

Fish bitch decided to retaliate by pulling Papyrus against her, legs hooking around his in a parody of intimacy. They both knew she was using him. Hell, his brother knew he was being used. But unlike normal, Papyrus was inebriated and might slip up on his usual tight-knit control. 

“RELEASE ME UNDYNE, I MUST CORRECT THIS GRIEVOUS ERROR MADE BY MY BROTHER.”

“Pffft. Lame!” she complained, unraveling from the tall skeleton. He scrambled up and over the couch, leaving Undyne to glare at Red with utter murder in her eyes. Red blamed biology for this little fiasco. Fish bitch wanted spawn, and Papyrus was one of the strongest monsters around. Sure, she had a mate in Alphys, but a select few were aware that nothing could come of uniting their souls because of what the former Royal Scientist did to herself a years ago. Between experimenting on the Fallen and the human children, she’d gotten her own soul involved and damaged it. Red only knew because he was the unlucky bastard who cleaned up the aftermath. They loathed each other, but debts Underground were currency worth more than gold or dust.

Since Alyphs couldn’t have children of her own, she gave permission for Undyne to go after Papyrus. Ever since he became Vice Captain, the fish tried seducing him. It was chase almost a decade in the making. Papyrus at least had enough sense to puzzle out at least part of what she was after each time she decided to frisk his bones. It wasn’t even that hard to determine why Undyne and Alphys decided that Papyrus was a perfect target for their scheme. He was Undyne’s friend, exceptionally intelligent and strong, he possessed impressive magical reserves...and was loyal. If he ever did have a kid, there was no way he wasn’t going to do everything in his power to protect his babybones. Underground that trait alone was exceptionally advantageous. It meant a third monster who could invest time and energy into keeping rare and precious offspring alive until it reached adulthood. Also didn’t hurt that Papyrus was decent enough with kids when parents allowed them anywhere near him.

Red braced himself. 

Undyne was a hot-head. Papyrus wasn’t completely sober. And Sans was even more of a nuisance than normal. That left Red in the middle, likely seen as at fault for all the troubles in the room.

“YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY TERRITORY YOU EXCEPTIONAL WASTE OF AIR?” Papyrus boomed, closing in on Sans. The smaller skeleton kept glancing between him and the two onlookers. His permanent smile twitched.

“ol’ red over there is holdin’ me hostage. told him i was fine goin’ home.”

“RED! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

He rubbed his sockets, “the fluff wanted to open for a new underwater jazz band. wut wuz i ‘sposed to do, let him swim with the fishes?” A jolt shimmied up his little brother’s spine.

“Fuhuhuhu, you serious, punk?”

Red ignored the former Captain and sidled toward where Sans stood. Papyrus of course beat him to the Free Exp, and proceeded to loom over Sans like a rabid dog monster. “OF COURSE YOU’RE A PATHETIC DRUNKARD AS WELL.”

“edge, buddy, don’t go throwin’ bones in glass houses. this whole you and undyne thing is less than, ah, great. she’s got a mate. you’ve been drinkin’. she’s clearly tryin’ to take advantage of—”

Papyrus laughed, the mockery blatant, “NEYH HEH HEH! HOW PRECIOUS. IN CASE YOU WERE NOT AWARE, SANS, I AM NO NEED OF YOUR RESCUE OR YOUR JUDGEMENTAL BULLSHIT. SAVE YOUR MISPLACED CODDLING BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE DIES BECAUSE OF YOU.” Sans stiffened. “NOW BE GONE. REMEMBER, YOU HAVE UNTIL THE END OF THE WEEK BEFORE I TAKE THIS NONSENSE INTO MY OWN HANDS.”

The tall skeleton whirled, “AND YOU, BROTHER, OUR HOME IS NOT A SAFE HOUSE. LAST I CHECKED, SOMEONE OUT THERE WANTS HIM DEAD, AND HERE HE IS STANDING IN THE SITTING ROOM. THINK ABOUT ANYBODY OTHER THAN YOURSELF FOR ONCE!”

Red growled, the air in the apartment turning arctic. Sans held his magic so tight to his soul that his intent was invisible beneath the pressures of three high LV monsters. He wanted a fight. Needed a fight. But a fight right now would likely lead to dust. And at the end of the day, he doubted any of them wanted each other dead. 

“fuck you,” he gritted through clenched teeth. Drunk. Papyrus was drunk, as well as everyone else in the room except for Red. And he wasn’t running on all cylinders given his lack of sleep. They all needed to cool off. Making a decision, he grabbed a despondent Sans by the wrist and dragged him back to his bedroom. “yer dun messed up, level bait. grab yer stuff. we hafta go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was haaaaaaard to write. But it's here! Call backs galore.)
> 
> Thank you for reading! This fic has reached over 200 kudos as of writing this note and is over 30k words (56 pages). Your support is amazing. Between comments here and on tumblr, y'all keep me inspired to write. That said, if you haven't already, check out my [current WIPs on tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179877833392/help-me-choose). Due to massive reader interest, Mine to Keep, is getting a continuation. Learn more about it in [this post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/180013277842/mine-to-break-preview).


	11. Shot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More secrets surface. Red continues to have a bad day.

There was a certain contradiction about the existence of 1HP monsters. Even the weakest of moldsmals have around ten. Most children are never born with with fewer than five. Papyrus was an especially healthy babybones with fifty to his name at birth, and that number rapidly swelled into the hundreds as an adult. Red, well, he wasn’t sure what he was born with, but until he dusted his first monster as a teenager, he nursed a sickly 3HP. A number that dogged him with its ill effects for years, his body the reflection of a weak, glassy core. Angel, he could still remember the the icy burn of exp as it hardened the edges of his soul.

Then there was Sans. Straight ones across the board. According to all the sciency shit Alphys (and his old man) left in their wake, monsters with a singular Hope should Fall Down. Literally any ounce of unhappiness or misplaced intent should crumble apart pearly bones. Red and Papyrus knew how to avoid touching HP with their attacks given their unique experience with the matter—most monsters didn’t care—but for a low HP monster, their worst enemy was in theory, themselves. Frail hope always prey to the illnesses of the mind that twisted up one’s will to live.

The decimal points Sans showed tonight? It punched a neat hole in established natural law. Sleep almost restored that full one and Sans evidently wasn’t Falling, which left the question of how. Red recalled the odd instance where he couldn’t get a clear view of stats that should have been readily available. A fact that drew more loose ends than conclusions. Another unanswered query shoved into the veritable pit trap that was what he knew about Sans.

Red was real sick of it.

“y’done?” he asked, eyelights flaring bright in the dimly lit room. Sans fumbled with his tie, giving up when the pitiful knot unwound for the third time in a row.

“yeah, m’done. look, i can get home m’self and—”

“shove it,” Red growled, once more grabbing Sans’ wrist and dragging him down the hall. The other skeleton followed loosely behind, as if he couldn’t muster the effort to protest. He shoved his hat on his skull before they made for the front door, catching sight of the two shadows in the kitchen as they walked. The sound of clattering plates and soft murmurs suggested that their pair were having their usual tea. No more almost soul fondling for now. 

Sans’ gaze lingered on the illumination from the kitchen as Red dragged him outside. 

“toldja he’s a grown skeleton,” Red murmured, shutting the door with a click. “never did take well to people actin’ like he couldn’t make his own decisions.”

“course he is. never said he wasn’t.”

“says the moron that tried to lecture him like a self-righteous prick. boss aint yer baby bro, he’s mine.” Red led the way down the stairs, one socket shut, the other focused on the Free Exp. “bet’cher still soft on him, aint yer?”

“dunno what you mean.” Red scoffed. He wondered if Sans knew how to hate others. He could hate himself just fine, and he saw a deep well of unexplained resentment for Frisk, but even after Papyrus verbally ripped into him, there was only a vacant hollowness thrumming in his aura. “he’s a murderin’ freak like you.” Anger should have swarmed him. Sans needed a few less teeth for that comment. But the apathy of that comment made it hang heavy in the air, a truth he desperately wished was a lie. 

“yer tryin’ to piss me off? ‘cause yer too late.”

“what’cha gonna do? kill me?”

They reached the bottom of the stairs, Red’s grip still firm on Sans’ wrist, “nah. one worse. i’mma let yer keep livin’, level bait. yer wanna solo for the catfish and i’m gonna be the bastard that sabotages the show.”

“why?”

“i dun go back on my promises and i pay my debts.”

They fell silent. Red dragged Sans along behind him, pace somewhere between ‘I want this day to be over’ and ‘What is the point to hurrying?’ Showing up at the Don’s place at who-knows-o-clock in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but it was better than leaving the fluff to his own devices. Who knew what he’d do if he let the guy go home. Exhausted, inebriated and on a self-destructive bend—Sans was a disaster waiting to happen. (Was this how Papyrus saw him when he was going through his lowest years? A miserable pile of animated dust that need protecting from himself in a world that wanted him dead.) Call it empathy—because it wasn’t sympathy—because Red understood. And there was nobody dragging Sans by the neck into every tomorrow, demanding that he stop passively awaiting his end. 

This was why the weak need the strong, his baser instincts purred. How much happier would he be if he knew his life was sheltered by another’s. Both Asgore and Papyrus have voiced what you know as truth. He’s dangerous. His weakness puts those around him at risk because he flaunts his miserable vulnerability.

Red squashed a shiver.

More LV would likely bolster Sans’ stats. Increase his HP like it did Red’s. Give him the grit to desire more out of life. LV2 or 3 was still low enough that his magic would retain its warmth. He wouldn’t have a pressing urge to gain more. It wasn’t until around LV5 that one risked corrupting their primary traits and discoloring their magic. 

He wiped his skull. This not hating Sans thing was exhausting. It was easier a month ago when Sans was the passing annoyance. An ever present nuisance that was too close to Lady Dreemur and her kid, but otherwise didn’t affect his life too terribly. Now, his routine skipped off the rails and Sans stood the middle of the tracks. A monster he couldn’t dust, didn’t especially want to dust anymore, who saved his life and simultaneously put it constantly at risk with his lack of self-preservation. A monster his instincts and his culture demanded he keep hidden away from sight so he could revel in his magic, yet his common sense warned would take poorly to such an arrangement. A monster that desperately needed LV and HP, but whose pretentious morals and fragility might break him should he be forced to gain them. Sans was interesting. 

Red, unfortunately, was the son of a scientist. Natural born curiosity blazed in the unnatural blood scalding through his bones. It latched onto interesting like Doggo to a Biscuit Treat. 

They were almost to the Dreemurs—Red cut through a familiar alleyway to shorten the amount of time they were in the open—when a shadow cut across his vision. Acting fast, he flung Sans behind his back, caging the other skeleton against the grimy cement wall, and whipped out his pistol. His eyelights brightened as he pulsed his aura, warning away any passing threat that he was stronger and in a mood to kill. Intent alone could drive off simple-minded scavengers that thought the pair might be an easy mugging target. But instead of fleeing, the owner of the shadow emerged from the gloom, nondescript in build, covered from head-to-toe in dark clothing. Its jacket hung oversized and heavy, boots and gloved fingertips barely peeking out from beneath. A broad-brimmed hat obscured its head and face.

“it’s him,” Sans breathed.

Red watched as the figure plunged a hand into his coat, as if reaching for a weapon. Whelp. Being shot again wasn’t on his agenda. Red fired his pistol, the bullet striking the figure right in the middle of his chest where his soul should be. It lurched back, thrown by the momentum, before returning fire. Sans and he both ducked away, narrowly avoiding the shot and the ensuing richotte. Not wanting this to get messy and aware that the Dreemurs wanted this bastard alive to stand ‘trial’, decided to yank this idiot into an encounter. It would keep Sans safe as long the idiot didn’t force himself into the mix.

Except...he couldn’t. All it normally took was a little magic and a little intent. Encounters locked monsters into turn-based combat where their souls were on display and vulnerable. Most monsters couldn’t even dodge when in an encounter. The only ways out were to either persuade the aggressive party to spare you before you croaked, or to run away. Most chose to stand their ground, because even if they managed to flee, it was likely the other monster would attack their exposed back the moment the encounter’s magic fell away. On the flipside, encounters left one highly vulnerable. Stats were easily CHECKED and even if one dusted their foe, if there were any other holstiles in the area, they likely had you surrounded during the FIGHT. Encounters were old magic, and it was impossible to attack someone in an Encounter from outside of it. Though it was possible to ‘join’ one, even by accident, by moving too close to the protobarrier that encompassed the combatants. 

Red tried to pull the shooter in again, adding a little blue magic to the mix. It was as if its soul was slippery. He could sense its presence, like ripples in a pond, but the cause of the disturbance slipped through his phalanges.

Frustrated, he tapped into his reserves and summoned a cage of bones around the figure, hoping to both trap and impale it. Crimson-and-white bones gleamed in the pre-dawn. He readied his pistol and sidled closer, very much wanting to crush this threat like a juicy bug. Maybe it’d even give a satisfying squish before falling to dust. Red closed in, noting that the hat had fallen away, and a number of jagged points were embedded into its form. Hardy fellow.

“gotcha. yer gonna pay fer puttin’ a hole in me,” he sneered, looking at its face, hoping to see fear. His expression almost faltered. This monster didn’t look...right. Its skin bore a distinct ahsen hue, as if drained of all color. Its features were, soft, amorphous, as if melting apart in slow motion. And its eyes. They were black. Blacker than black. Like pits into the distant unknowable unknown. 

“Anomalies cause divergent paths,” the odd monster gurgled in reply. His mouth didn’t move. “Left and right, the paths skip. Most parallel, never to cross. What happens if there is an intersection? He knows. He was scattered across time and space. He can see what is and what will be. The loops, the twists, collapse of a dying star. Forgetting. What are you forgetting? What has been forgotten? Who has been forgotten? I am simply a fragment of a memory yet unmade. Am I real? The horror of once knowing realness—the world unchanged by your absence. But you...you aren’t Unmade. The anomalies...they unmake by existing.”

With a laugh to conclude his gibbering spiel, the monster’s form collapsed upon the jutting bones. Except not as a powder, but as a fluid. What the fuck was going on? The bones didn’t appear to cease its movement, so Red shot it again, spraying goop everywhere. To his dismay, the hole closed up and the grey form crashed towards him. 

“shit, shit, shit!” he backpedaled, uncertain how to proceed. Could they fight it? Could they run? It started to form a more solid shape again, pistol in its ‘hand’. Red swore a blue streak as he fired another shot as a distraction before seeking out Sans. For once the skeleton showed some common sense and was creeping towards the mouth of the alleyway. “i dunno what that is, but we gotta scram.” 

Sans wasn’t responsive, he kept scooting and muttering under his breath, “he’s here. of course he’s here. he’s everywhere.”

“time and place, level bait!” Red shouted, snapping Sans from his daze. The softer skeleton looked back at the grey monster before scrambling to join Red’s dash for safety. Expecting another gunshot, the mobster glanced over his shoulder at their foe, only to find them gone. Sans grabbed him and forced him to a stop. Up ahead, in the mouth of the alley, was the reforming shape of the monster.

“Only one way to stabilize the timeline,” the creature slurred. 

Red made to shoot again, but Sans practically tackled him.

**BANG!**

 

Cold. Cold and dark. Not like LV. Not like fear. Not like death. But like nothingness. Light and warmth were an absent concept. As if space were a void empty of stars or the potential for life. There was no darkness darker. No cold, colder. It swallowed, chased, consumed. It beckoned. And then, reality returned in the passing of a soul beat. 

 

Red hit the ground with Sans sprawled on top of him for the second time that evening. His pistol clattered away, out of reach. He lurched up, ready to push them both to their feet. To run. Wait. That wasn’t cement under his claws. He gave an experimental tap. Wood? They weren’t in the alleyway. Why weren’t they in the alleway? “the fuck yer do?” he asked, scruffing Sans by the back of the suit. His thoughts halted as he felt dampness against his palm. Not sure what else to do he summoned his Glow, magic flushing bones until a faint illumination radiated between his joints. 

A dark stain bloomed like a rose between Sans’ shoulder blades. At its center was a small hole torn in the fabric.

“heh. guess you really don’t hate me.”

Sans fuzzy white eyelights met Red’s pinprick crimson. Dripping down his chin was a familiar scarlet. It leaked between his bottommost teeth, vivid in the glowlight. Red tipped Sans back to reveal the front of the other skeleton’s chest. The fabric was soaked through. Gauging by the position of the hole and the fact that Red didn’t have one in himself…

_“i shot yer.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, y'all are awesome. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Alright, this chapter is about a week later than planned because allergy season hit hard, and I've been nursing a cold or something related. Head fog and constant coughing do not make for lots of writing muse! If you're interested in my musings for alternate paths for my current stories (and possible future fics) check out [this post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/180311075352/on-alternate-paths-to-current-stories).


	12. Fractured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve got cracks in their facades. Now if only Sans would shut up and stop bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is a reupload of Ch. 12. Due to some weirdness with Ao3, I decided to just delete the chapter and reupload because I could not be certain that any notices of new chapters were sent since my fic wasn't showing as updated. Hopefully this fixes the issue~]

“i shot yer.”

And Sans wasn’t dead. How wasn’t Sans dead? Even if he lacked the intent to kill the other skeleton, the sheer damage alone should have turned him instantly to dust, that singular HP snuffed out in an instant. Except...he bled. He bled like Red did. That same unnaturally bright and shiny crimson fluid that his old man said made him extra durable despite his own piss poor stats. 

“yep. m’fault. shoulda...shoulda been more careful when i...when...heh, wow, it’s...hard to talk.”

Red didn’t know what else to do. He CHECKED Sans.

 

Sans  
Lv 1 | HP ??? | ATK ??? | DEF ???  
EXP ???  
*Status: Unknown  
*Threat Level: Unknown  
*D E T E R M I N A T I O N

 

“m’dying an’ you’re check-ing me out? must really have a hot cat for me.”

Red almost—almost—couldn’t believe that Sans would pun as he laid bleeding in his arms, “shuddup, if yer not dead now, yer not gonna die.”

“nuthin’? not even a pity chuckle for a real classy boner joke? thought that one was a rib tickler. real humerus. ulna-t go to my grave before—”

“—thought it wuz hard to talk. so save yer breath, level bait, yer wasting air.”

“according to your bro i am a waste of air.”

“that’s not an exclusive club. most the underground and humanity wouldn’t be breathin’ if he had his way.”

“dark.”

Unable to get a proper read on Sans’s once more infuriatingly slippery stats, Red slowed his racing thoughts to think over his next course of action. Sans needed healing—proper, green magic healing—but he was worthless at sealing up more than minor injuries. They were in a location unknown to Red and he had no idea if moving Sans would be the final nudge off the cliff for him. But if he was going to be healed, that was a risk they needed to take. “alright comedian, yer say you aint gonna dust from this, so how ‘boutcha tell me where we are so i can figure out the fastest way to lady dreemur.” Since he doubted Papyrus had any inclination to actually heal Sans at this moment. “and mebbe how we got here in the first place.”

“m’fine, just need a some food and a nap,” Sans started to struggle in Red’s grip, but the mobster wasn’t about to let go. He covered the gunshot wound with one hand, cussing as blood dripped through his phalanges. “mebbe a bandage. should prolly wrap m’ribs. got a kit in the bathroom.”

The hints settled in Red’s skull like the tumblers in a lock, and irritation rose hot to the surface, “this yer place, aint it? fuckin’ hell, we coulda avoided so much bullshit if yer’d have just told me howta git here to start wit.” He could have drug Sans’ drunk tailbone here, dumped him off, and there would have been no further incidents. Stubborn, infuriating, self-destructive, secretive piece of FreeExp! The moment there was no risk of anyone dying, he was going to make Sans’ hangover an utter hell. “stay.” 

“not like i can go anywhere, sunshine,” Sans snarked as Red laid him in the floor, before seeking out the bathroom. A minute later and—

“where the fuck are your lights?” 

Sans cackled in response.

Grumbling expletives, he enhanced his glow, lighting up the darkened room a dusty crimson. He blinked. This place was trashed. Not messy as Papyrus hinted at in their attempt at a discussion, but wrecked, as if Sans had decided that cleaning up entailed upturning what little furniture he owned and throwing books against the wall until they spewed their innards. The bathroom was easy enough to find, as was the the mentioned kit, which laid behind the toilet. He popped it open, hoping to find a healing balm or magic stimulants. Instead human medical supplies filled the case, neat rolls of bandages tucked beside a jar of disinfectant. None of this would help beyond stoppering the leak. 

Red grabbed fistfuls of bandages and the singular towel draped over the edge of the tub. It wasn’t exactly clean, there was the faint scent of mildew and odd dried stains, but it would have to do. Returning to Sans, he found the other skeleton sitting up, sweat dripping down his skull, a fine spattering of powder dusting the floor where he’d been laying, like someone had dropped a piece of white chalk. 

“fuck,” he scurried closer, uncertain if he had the time to bandage Sans up before he fell apart. He needed to stabilize him and fast. “food!” Red dropped the medical supplies to investigate the kitchen. Only to find that Sans’ icebox and cabinets were void of anything edible. At this hour, what shop was open? Would he have to break down a neighbor’s door and mug them for their edibles? He slid to a stop by Sans, ready to demand which of his neighbors were monsters, when the level bait pulled out a small, flat, rectangular box. His whole body trembled from the strain of holding the object up, thumb clicking against the surface until it lit. Suddenly, his grip failed, and the device clattered to the floor, and Sans doesn’t reach for it, exhausted from his earlier idiocy.

“there’s a button. says box a. tap it. is where i keep m’food. heh. surprise!”

Red wasn’t exactly sure what to make of that declaration, but did as he was told, picking up the glowing box and examining the front. It appeared to be some kind of glass screen. There were a couple smaller boxes underneath the glass marked ‘CALL’ ‘CONTACTS’ ‘BOX A’ ‘BOX B’ and ‘EXPERIMENTAL FEATURES’. No time to loiter on what any of it meant, Red touched the screen where it said Box A and a list of items spawned into view.

 

1\. Ketchup  
2\. Ketchup  
3\. Meancream  
4\. Hotcat  
5\. Empty Bottle  
6\. Cinnabunny  
7\. Machine Notes  
8\. HSTE-DT  
9\. Left Sock  
10\. Old Photograph

His eyelights lingered on a couple of the items, memories attempting to well up, his old man’s voice a washed out echo beneath his mental chant to find food and force it down Sans’ throat. Fortunately for Sans’, Red was a quick study and didn’t lose his senses over a very questionable piece of tech. Hypothesizing that tapping on the item itself should have an effect like earlier, he thumbed the first item on the list. There was an odd hum of resonance in his soul, and then, like pressure giving way during a thunderclap, a glass bottle of ketchup formed in his opposite palm. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was more like his soul pulled it from some unseeable space and dropped it there. The list on the screen now only went to nine items.

“yer gonna tell me the fuck this is once yer done leaking,” Red said, prying off the cap and kneeling by Sans. A few hearty shakes and a death drip on the back of the level bait’s neck later, and he emptied the contents of the ketchup bottle into his mouth. The hotcat or the cinnabunny would be better for recovery, but the condiment was easy and fast, no chewing required and instantly absorbed into the system. He recalled how he himself woke to Sans holding a melting meancream pop over his open jaws, and how he couldn’t figure out how he managed to stow away a number of the frozen treats without them turning to puddles in the heat. 

He tapped the screen again, a chocolate pop appearing in his claws in response, pristine and still icy to the touch. Was this a mini stasis machine? His old man would have gone nuts over something like this. He knew how to build large scale versions, but never attempted one that could be held in the hand. Red wondered how large of an object could fit in these boxes. Where were these boxes? The ketchup was pleasantly cool but not frozen, meaning that they weren’t both kept in some icebox somewhere, and he doubted anyone would keep written notes or photographs someplace where they could get damp.

“heh. forgot i had that. was gonna give that to frisk, but uh...yeah…” Then something happened and he decided to go drinking and seek out a bridge to play on. Red pressed the pop to Sans’ teeth, fortunately not needing to pry open his jaws to wedge the potentially lifesaving treat between them. Though he may have been a touch rougher than necessary given how Sans’ eyelights bloomed wide for a split second and he make a choked gurgle. He was a skeleton. It was fine. Unlike Red, Sans wasn’t one to consume the sticks along with the pop, and spat it out once the meancream dissolved, “be more gentle next time sweetheart, i’m fragile.”

Red rolled his eyelights at the quip, “If yer wanted gentle, it wouldn’t be my hotcat yer keep trying to—” 

Sans flushed, the glow of his magic mingling violet with his own, “not gonna be lickin’ no ketchup off nobody. how many time i gotta tells you, i dun consider gettin’ shot at a first date.”

“well aint’cha pickier than a high class dame?” The other skeleton made to respond but groaned instead, panting, sweat leaking down his skull. Stronger and more stable meant jack all if he couldn’t keep him that way. “c’mon, lady dreemur will have my ribs fer lunch if i don’t git yer in fer proper healin’.”

“no...no thanks pal. i’ll chug ‘nother bottle of the good ol’ ketchup and sleep the rest off. jus’ leave the bandages there. I’ll patch m’self up later.”

Like he was going to believe that. Red cracked his knuckles, “looks like we’re doing’ this the hard way.” Sans blinked up as his doppleganger reached forward and promptly began to manhandle him. He pulled off Sans’ jacket with relative ease, but when his claws closed in on the buttons of his untucked shirt, Sans began to writhe. Violently. Which was the exact opposite of what someone in his condition should be doing. 

“get offa me!” he gasped, kicking, his hands gripping at Red’s wrists. 

“i’m tryin’ to help, asshole. hard to see what the damage is wit it covered up.” A couple buttons clatter across the wooden floor, exposing a generous portion of collarbone and the barest hint of sternum. He hadn’t meant to actually rip those off. But Sans’ struggling was making it impossible to do this carefully. Red gripped the fabric again only to feel his whole body submerged in white hot magic. 

PING!

He lost all sense of gravity and direction as Sans chucked him across the room in an artless, heavy-handed fashion. It reminded Red of when his brother started showing aptitude for blue magic and threw Red into a snowbank during a temper tantrum. It was primal and it hurt, his soul not appreciating the rough handling. Luckily the priss didn’t put any killing intent behind the push, so when Red hit the wall, only his pride was damaged. And Sans didn’t have the energy to keep him pinned, so the spell slipped off, his molten magic retreating, those precious reserves needed for healing. In all honesty, it was impressive the other skeleton was conscious.

“i can...i can take care of myself...not gonna...not gonna dust,” Sans wheezed. He wrapped an arm around his middle, the dark stain oozing from his injury spreading onto his shirtsleeve. A streak of blood gleamed wetly on bone in the violet cast of the room. “shit.” 

“look, we both know the red stuff needs to stay on the inside. lemme wrap your injury and shove some more food down yer, then yer can sleep. for fucks sake, i owe yer a life debt. m’not gonna hurt yer. if my lv is what’s freakin’ yer out, yer should know by now if i didn’t have a handle on it, yer’d be dead already. i’d’ve dusted yer and coulda blamed it on the gunman, said yer died from yer injuries.”

Those unfocused white eyelights strained to remain in little discs, ”your promise.” Red stilled. “i want it now.” The mobster nodded, wondering if Sans was about to banish him from the room. That wouldn’t settle well in his soul. Especially if Sans overestimated his survivability and died when he left. “i want your silence. promise me that you will tell noone what we discuss and have experienced tonight and in this room. not a word ‘bout…’bout my bleeding. ‘bout my phone”—that’s what the glowing box thing was?—”’bout the gunman.”

He clicked his teeth, scowling at the pathetic piece of fluff glaring at him like a battered kitten, “i swear it. i’ll keep it secret.” Which meant he’d have a helluva time explaining to Toriel how Sans ended up shot. Ah well, he could lie with the best of them when he needed.

Sans released a haggard breath and slumped against the wall, as if it hurt more to think about trusting Red than being shot by him. Prick. Red approached again, reaching for Sans’ shirt. The skeleton didn’t resist this time, eyesockets blank, his skull tilted away. He could feel the fatigue hanging off him, a tangible sludge that weighed of stone. Peeling away the fabric, Red paused, gaze drawn not to the glowing matrix of magic holding together his bones, but the massive scar spanning diagonally from his right shoulder down to the bottom of the ribcage on the opposite side. It was a hideous, messy knot of calcium that utterly warped his ribs and ravaged his sternum, bone forming a sunken valley deep enough for Red to rest a claw tip in. A mark like that bespoke of pure malicious intent and soul-cracking trauma. 

It made the little gunshot wound look like a love tap.

Speaking of which...the bright red of blood collected in fine, essentially invisible to the eye cracks littering Sans’ pearly bones. Starting at the crook of the elbows, there were small pinpricks—track marks?—along his arms. His ribs and spine bore fine lines as well, as if made by a professional’s steady hand. Red’s instincts once more clamored to the surface. Begging. Demanding. But he clamped down on those urges with a surge of fury. Anger was easier than pity. Sans shivered as Red’s cold aura pulsed, but didn’t resist as the other skeleton mopped up the blood and accessing his injury. A good chunk of rib was blown to bits and there was a hole in his scapula, though the shattered edges of the injury was what was really concerning. The matrix was barely stable, and the cracks were threatening to expand further, like thin ice when stepped upon. Chips fell away when Red blotted off the blood. Fragile. 

As carefully as possible, he wrapped the holes up with bandages, fully aware that their only use at this point was to keep the unnatural liquid inside those delicate bones.

“food and healin’ magic aint gonna help much at this point,” Sans breathed, motioning weakly at his odd ‘phone’. “i know you saw the hste-dt. i need that.” Red quietly assisted, withdrawing a syringe of bright scarlet fluid. It possessed a radiance that dared outshine the magic in the room. He knew what this was. It hurt to think about, but...he recalled his old man pouring his attention over the collected human souls and the vivid rainbow he extracted from them. He explained that every soul—human or monster—was a composed of the same traits, but in differing quantities. How even the meekest, most demoralized human possessed more determination in them than any monster, and yet red souls were unusual given that the other traits were typically far more prominent in said humans. It had been a while since he cared enough about soul theory to think too hard on the whys and hows.

But he did recall distinctly how Gaster distilled the traits from each other to measure the composition of the human soul, all in hopes to breaking the barrier.

HSTE-DT—or Human Soul Trait Extract: Determination Type—was what he thought played a major key in their escape. It was lethal to monsters in all but the smallest amounts, and the results of an overdose were horrifying. Alphys proved that much so far during her time as Royal Scientist. 

Red shook himself from his stuttering train of thought and grabbed Sans’ wrist when the skeleton reached for the extract, “the fuck yer need this fer? where did yer get this?”

Sans swiped the needle with his other hand, “the same reason you need it. as for where, nunya.” 

“i’m not suicidal. i know wut that shit does to yer body and soul. wouldn’t touch it if yer offered the world.”

“huh. well aint that peachy for you,” Sans sniped before muttering. “just ‘nother difference.” Before Red could snatch the extract away to further his questioning, Sans jabbed the syringe into his humerus and emptied it in a swift motion. The needle sank into bone like it was butter, offering no resistance...and then Sans screamed. Or at least tried. His mouth opened and he doubled over, whole body convulsing. And then...he went still. He was cold, shiny with sweat, and limp. Yet, when Red CHECKED Sans, he found his vitals stable, and noted that the glow of the healing matrix was stronger than before, and the brittleness of his bones was slowly replaced by what he could only describe as a pliant softness. 

Angel above, was he about to watch him turn to a puddle of goop?

“never can get used to that feelin’,” Sans croaked out, his voice a mix between a squeak and a whisper. “think...think you can drag me to my bed? sleepin’ on the floor kinda sucks and it’ll be awhile ‘fore m’soul settles enough ‘fore i can function proper.”

“...sans….”

“hm?”

“what the hell is going on?”

Sans didn’t reply. Instead he slumped to the floor, unconscious, leaving Red with his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually went in a completely different direction than originally planned. And thus continues the very eventful night for Red. More explanations will come next chapter!
> 
> NOTE: I've been waiting to reveal that cellphone since chapter one. Heh. It's how Sans "pranked" Red in chapter one with the hot cat, and how he's pulled out mystery food in future chapters. (It is powered by MAGIC) 
> 
> On an unrelated note, I've been making holiday themed drawings of the skelebros. Check them out on my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/) if that's your jam. I've done the fell!bros, the tale!bros and the swap!bros. Thinking of doing the fellswap!bros next~ I'm also still working on a certain sequel in my free time. So for you bad end kustard fic lovers, know that it is in the making.


	13. Whiskey Lullabye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s some memories you can’t drink away. So you’re left with the choice to live with them or to pull the trigger. Red and Sans have a much needed conversation.
> 
>  **Alt. Title:** Dialogue: The Chapter

Red wanted a drink. Needed a drink. He wanted to be at the bottom of a case of human whiskey, too sloshed to think about his problems. It might have been a long time since Papyrus accused him of losing himself in the bottle, but everyone knew he liked his liquor still, and there were a number of mornings where it was a hangover keeping him in bed instead of pure laziness. One might call it denial, when he told his brother that he wasn’t drowning himself anymore, but in truth, Red might get drunk now and then, but never did he fall prey to the urge to drink himself into blackout oblivion. It had been years since a bartender had to call Papyrus to fetch him off their floor, or he fancied the idea of seeing how much alcohol it took to poison himself and end it all. They both knew what a ‘drinking problem’ meant for Red. It meant self-loathing and escape—not the recreational stress relief he entertained nowadays.

And boy did this skeleton need some stress relief.

In the span of a couple weeks, Sans proved to be more than a lazy grifter leeching off the good graces of the Dreemur family. He watched that facade of his truly crack, revealing a complicated, tangled mess that wasn’t so nonchalant after all. And his magic. Angel above, that molten warmth that swallowed up the ice of lv like its owner stood a chance in a fight. Reproaching and judgemental, yet still true to monster nature, compassionate and kind. Every instinct roared to either destroy Sans or protect him from the world—because Sans certainly wasn’t about to take care of himself.

He was perpetually exhausted. He was lonely and lost. He was an anomaly that carved a place for himself in this kill-or-be-killed city.

He had the same name as Red.

He bled bright, shiny blood like Red.

He wore Red’s face without the sharp edges and cracks.

The headache that chased him whenever he thought too long and hard about the latest string of events began to pound like a sonuvabitch. Why was it so hard to focus? Why was it so much easier to dismiss Sans as a pitiful little annoyance not worth his time or effort than it was to acknowledge him as something else? And why did he feel like his old man was somehow involved? 

Rubbing his temples, Red scanned their surroundings. Alert. Sans laid out on the floor, snoring softly, the matrix of magic holding him together glowing bright without layers of cloth smothering its luminance. Around the breaks, blue magic shimmered violet, DT intermixing, the radiance bleeding through the haphazard bandaging. “why were yer wanderin’ ‘round the city?” he murmured. “and why is yer place like this?” Deciding to let Sans rest for the moment, he rose and began to properly explore the apartment. Papers crinkled underfoot. Schematics. Equations. Charts. When Red peered at a few of the more violently wadded up sheets, his head spun from the complicated mathematics. To a casual eye, it was obvious Sans was making something mechanical, something that involved heavy theoretical physics and advanced engineering that your average joe didn’t have a chance of understanding. But Red, he had just enough education in these matters, enough memories, to cue in on a few key notes.

He purposefully shuffled through the papers on the desk until he found what he suspected he might, “this looks like a fancy version of dings’ machine.” The very machine he himself spent watching until he fell into an existential crisis. The one that showed loops and twists in the timeline. Red shivered. His mind wasn’t quite ready to accept the conclusions it was drawing. The implications. He already considered this once...let the thoughts slip away as they did so easily when he wasn’t focused on remembering. Did he want to?

Shifting away from the desk and the clutter of paper and mechanical pieces, he examined the books that were thrown against the walls. Red frowned as he picked up a hefty, oddly bound textbook. Were...were those color pictures inside? They were so vibrant and clear. And the paper was so glossy and smooth. He reached down and picked up another. A joke book. Wait...he flipped it open. Quantum Physics? He flipped it again. Jokes. Much like the phone, this could only be explained through an advanced hybridization of magic and science. Where did the Free Exp learn any of this? Where did he get this tech? 

Still holding the books, he wandered into the kitchen, discovering that the ones in his hands were not the only oddities in the collection. “that’s wingdings,” he breathed, pulling out a slim book with the same, odd feeling to it as the other ones. The author’s name was almost entirely scuffed away and when he opened the book, large swaths of text were blacked out and whole pages were ripped. Was there more? Had Sans somehow found a treasure trove of his old man’s research that wasn’t lost? If so...how and why?

Red shoved the book into a inner pocket of his jacket, reminding himself of his abandoned pistol. Best to fetch that instead of leaving it on the floor. A glance at Sans in the glowlight still radiating from his injury as well as Red’s own bones, showed the skeleton still asleep. It’d be the kind thing to drag his sorry pelvis to a bed. Red wasn’t in the mood to be kind. He was confused and struggling against the natural anger that rose in response to his helplessness. He owed no debt to Sans now. Only the promise to Lady Dreemur stood between him and just ending this nonsense before it consume more of his life than it already did. Dusting Sans and burning down the whole apartment complex would feel good. It’d satiate that urgent need. It’d soothe the fury and spite. 

He swallowed and holstered his pistol. Not now. His self-control was thin, but he wasn’t a mindless puppet to his lv. Red refrained from CHECKing Sans and continued his exploration. Papyrus mentioned a trash tornado. There didn’t appear to be one roaming currently. Though the lump of debris resting in a far corner suggested that it have been its final resting place. With little else left unexplored, Red went to open the closet.

“don’t.”

Red paused, turning to look at Sans. The other skeleton had one eyelight ignited and remained in a heap on the floor. He made a token attempt to rise, but exhausted himself within seconds. “thought yer wuz sleepin’.”

“for a lazy guy, i’m not very good at it, tiba-honest.”

The mobster walked away from the door to crouch by Sans, “yer up to talkin’ or yer gonna pass out ‘gain?”

“not gonna pass out. that’s passed.”

Red didn’t ask for permission before hauling Sans up, mindful of the injury, and propping him against the wall, “talk. if yer get sketchy i’ll go throw open that closet.”

“asshole.”

“i’ve been called worse by toddlers.”

“edge?”

“creative little shit didn’t even have to use swears to make yer feel like trash,” Red replied, perhaps a touch too cheerily. There were good memories mixed in the bad. He could recall the better days when the burden of unwanted parenthood wasn’t an albatross around his neck. Where he could be the obnoxious big brother to a obsessive, routine driven babybones that thought bad words were beneath him. Yeah...those were moments worth remembering. “so, ‘nough deflectin’. answers.”

Sans sighed, “depends on where you want to start.”

“hows ‘bout an easy one,” Red pulled out the slim book he found, written in Wingdings. “where’d yer get this? looks like my old man’s work but it aint.”

“you sure you wanna start there?”

“now that yer said that? even more so. remember, i promised i aint gonna spill nuthin’ yer say in this apartment. might as well be honest fer once in yer life.”

Sans stared at the book, his eyesockets now hollow, “heh. guess if anyone will keep a promise, it’ll be a judge.” Red didn’t have a chance to ask what that meant before he continued, “that’s his work alright. but uh, not your father’s if that makes any sense. what’cha know ‘bout the theory behind alternate universes?” 

“...assume nuthin’.”

“short answer, this book was written by a version of...the doctor...during a divergent timeline from your own. one where technology was different and the underground was...also different.”

Red clicked his teeth, “and yer got yer grubby mitts on a book from a different timeline...how?”

“pass.”

“oi! That’s not how this works.”

Sans scoffed and straightened a little, “it’s not important. and likely harmful for me to explain. it hurts to think ‘bout him, don’t it? you keep rubbin’ your skull. can’t force what aint ready. all you end up with is mental soup.”

“wut ‘bout the hste? how aint yer a puddle right now? how aint yer a pile of dust on the floor from me shootin’ yer?”

“he ever tell you how you were born?”

“uh. no. figured it wuz the usual way wit single monsters. lotsa magic and intent.” Why the Royal Scientist wanted offspring was a mystery. Though given the way Sans was looking at him, apparently wasn’t the answer he expected.

“you’ve got dt in you. like me. except you don’t recall ever receiving an injection. it’s what makes you hardier than your stats say. keeps your magic whole when it should be fallin’ apart. keeps your soul super glued together. i’m curious if...he...found a way for you to produce it naturally.”

Red stiffened at Sans’ bland statement. The way his old man found his bleeding fascinating but declared it normal. “can’t be dt. last i checked determination makes our kind melt.”

“it does. unless you were literally made to contain it. alphys didn’t get those notes when she started to experiment on monsters.” Made? The word rang like a shotgun blast to a church bell. This felt wrong (right), he needed to go (stay) but he couldn’t move. 

“right...guessin’ yer not gonna tell me how yer know ‘bout alphys’ mishaps. so i’ll ask a different question. wuz in that closet yer dun want me to see?”

“not as much see, as touch. it’s a permanent shortcut.”

“yer’ve used that word ‘fore. shortcut.”

Sans bobbed his skull, “what’cha remember from me bringin’ us here?”

“cold. dark and cold.”

“most people—monsters or human—don’t notice the void when they pass through it. some will get disoriented, dizzy and sick, since their brains can’t comprehend near instantaneous travel from one point to another. but it’s little different than stepping through a doorway in your own home and endin’ up in someone else’s house. only certain monsters can perceive the transition through the void...and even fewer can travel it willingly. That closet is...ah, where i’ve worn a thin spot between the physical world and the void and built a bridge between it and another singular determined point.”

“yer tellin’ me if i walk into that closest i’ll end up somewhere else?”

“i’m tellin’ you if anyone walked through that closet they’d end up somewhere else.”

“huh.”

“you’re takin’ this well.”

“gimmie an hour or two to process and i’ll lose my shit then.”

“try not to do it here. place is already trashed enough.”

“speakin’ of which…” Red let the phrase dangle, searching Sans’ bland expression before trailing to the upended room. 

Sans leaned his skull against the wall, sockets heavily lidded, “a project i’ve been workin’ on for the past year was sabotaged. kinda took it as a sign from the universe to just...accept my lot in life.”

“guessin’ yer weren’t happy ‘bout that.”

“i have 1hp, red.” A minor setback could be devastating to someone with so little HoPe. A major one that potentially altered one’s very way of living or crushed any chance at the future they planned? Little wonder that Sans was scoping out bridges. “you really shouldn’t have intervened. better for everyone.”

“fuck off wit that shit. yer alive.”

“heh. yeah. I am, aint i?” Sans laid a hand over the bandages, tugging at them, hissing through his teeth as the soiled cloth dropped away. Red couldn’t quite believe it, but his bones were reforming without guidance. “you have any green magic at all?”

“yes?”

“you feelin’ altruistic? a little healin’ magic would speed this up.”

“that dt sober yer up, did it?” Red quipped. Sans, despite his reluctance to move, seemed coherent. Far more so than when he found him earlier in the evening. The other skeleton gave him a black stare. Red snickered. “wuz innit fer me?”

“information?”

“nah. m’thinkin’ favor fer a favor.”

“...what favor?”

As much as it appealed to hold it over Sans’ head, Red relented, “them shortcuts. think i can learn ‘em?”

Sans huffed, “that’s not a question of if, as much as how you haven’t figured it out already.”

“wuz that mean?”

“mean’s you gotta deal.”

Deciding not to linger too heavily on how easily Sans complied with his request, Red shifted to lay both his palms over the matrix and let his sockets slip shut. It took effort—far more than blue magic ever did—but he tapped into that piece of himself, deep and distant, capable of healing. Of sacrificing his own magic to mend another. Selflessness. Kindness. Compassion. It wasn’t maternal like Toriel’s, nor unabashedly raw like Papyrus’. It was warm. A smoldering ember left burning in the deadened ash of a fire. Impossible to turn into an inferno, but enough to coax hotter. Bolder. It was love instead of LOVE. 

And he didn’t have much to offer.

But he thought of his brother, of those urgent moments where he would have done anything to drag him from the cusp of death. He thought of Frisk, the loyalty and dedication that would never falter after their quest. He, oddly, thought of Sans. That not-hate he held in place of deeper affection. He wanted Sans to recover. It’d be a shame to add more scars to his pretty—

A hand shoved away his from the matrix. The moment broken. Sans was flushed, a shade of blue Red was growing familiar with. 

“you were, ah, projecting pretty strong there, buddy.”

“cuz my green magic aint worth anythin’ if i don’t. so shove it.”

“right…” Sans used Red’s upper arm and shoulder to push himself up to his knees. “gimmie my phone.” A minute later, Sans was standing, albeit shakily, and shoving down a cinnabunny like it murdered his whole family and he was seeking revenge. “okay, i’m...i’m okay.” Sans hobbled over to his mattress and dropped onto it with a groan. “this’ll do.”

Red followed, “so, ‘nother easy question, why didja jump in front of me and git yerself shot draggin’ me through yer shortcut?” He made a wide gesture.

Sans curled up and didn’t reply for a long moment, “it was either shortcut us to safety or risk one of us dying. you couldn’t kill it.”

“everythin’ dies.”

“not if it isn’t alive. or doesn’t exist.” Red scowled at the lump that was Sans. “the gunman...he...it...it’s an anomaly. an echo. when—he—died, he did so in such a way that he erased his very existence from memory. his creations remained, but his name was stripped from the record. in some variations of the timeline...others are affected as well. as if they never existed at all. i’m not sure how they interact with the physical world, but this echo seems to have a purpose. one that i am one-hundred percent certain is liked back to him. he...meddles.”

Red scratched the back of his neck, “yer tellin’ me my old man is somehow involved cuz his swim in the core caused a weird glitch in the timeline, that in turn caused some monsters to be erased wit him. that’s a far stretch, level bait. ‘specially considerin’ that by yer own logic, yer shouldn’t know who my old man wuz, much less any of this anomaly business.”

“unless…” Sans left the word dangling, rolling over to look up at Red. 

Unless. Unless. Unless.

The misfiring connections in his mind at last fused, and Red drank in the implications, “unless yer wuz from one of them alternate timelines…” His soul beat faster. Replayed and repeated every interaction he had with Sans for the past year and a half. Revisited each CHECK. He thought on that not-so-long-ago moment in the bolt hole, where Sans helped Red when he himself was shot.

 

_Red struggled to find his balance and ended up leaning heavily against Sans, accidentally pinning him against the wall. Weird. Sans always seemed smaller, but they were indeed the same height...same breadth. “it’s just...have you ever looked at anyone and wondered, could that have been me?”_

_Red traced Sans’ dull eyelights and barely there grin, “yeah.”_

 

“could that have been me...yer really could’ve been me. but yer aint.” Red was sweating. “yer...how? how?

Sans gave a humorless laugh, “million dollar question right there. i don’t know. hard to go back when you don’t know for certain how you left. i have theories, but i’m not sure if i have time. this is twice now that the gunman has come after us. both times we were together in a public place. i...i have a feeling i know what might be happenin’, and if it is...heh, you won’t have to worry ‘bout me for too much longer.” He looked up at the ceiling and raised his voice, “y’hear that doc? i’m onto you!” Maybe sober wasn’t exactly the right word for Sans. He was still off-kilter.

Red rubbed his skull. If the metaphorical sledgehammer would let up on bashing his nonexistent brains in, that would be nice. “wut now?” he asked. 

Sans gave the edge of the mattress a pat, “sleep.”

Sleep...he could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Red hasn't had enough sleep to be alarmed by any of what he's just heard. 
> 
> And yes I did reference [this song](https://youtu.be/7gV3g9LCvPc).
> 
>  **SPECIAL NOTE**  
>  ANYWAY! Thank you all so much for reading and supporting this fic. As of posting this chapter, it is very close to 300 kudos, and only a couple chapters ago, we were at 200. Y'all are amazing~ On a somewhat related note, I am considering doing an art/writing trade, request fill or even open up some characters from my fics for Asks for the holiday season. If this is at all your sort of thing, [check out this post on my Tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/181142867917/a-holiday-treat-help-me-choose) to learn more and help me choose what I do~


	14. Best Left Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Red's Past

“Sans. Come in here, now.”

Curious white eyelights skittered to the doorway of his old man’s personal lab. He wasn’t allowed inside for the past couple months. Something about sensitive projects that didn’t need his clumsy hands anywhere near. Apparently the top secret thing that children had no business even peeking at was complete if the doctor wanted his presence. Sans clicked the budding points of his adult fangs, curious but wary. Nevertheless, he obeyed, padding inside, phalanges skimming metal wall. The inside of the laboratory looked much the same as normal, heaps of paper littering every flat surface, odd machines blinking from the walls, and tall glass cylinders glinting eerily in the fluorescent light.

At the center of the room, holding a lump of fabric, was his father. W.D. Gaster. Royal Scientist and Advisor to the King. He was a tall, slim built monster—imposing in his rigid uniform of a white lab coat over black. The only visible parts of him the stark bone of his skull and his hands. Did he always have holes in his hands? His fangs were pressed together in an expressionless line, cracked sockets void of eyelights. Like most of their species, his presence was cold, chilled with the LV monsters gained to survive in these harsh times. 

“what yer got there, doc?” Sans asked, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. Despite the sweltering heat of Hotland and the CORE, he often wore loose sweaters and long pants, the layers adding bulk to his miniscule frame. More than once his old man complained that he was too small for his age, that he’d never reach ideal height and weight for a skeleton at this rate. Usually he’d start mumbling about HP and stats before dismissing Sans for the day. From what he heard, kids usually attended school. Sans never left the labs. This was his life. Only a naturally inquisitive nature and the desire not to disappoint his old man kept him attentive in his self-education. Gaster mentioned that Sans could help him when he was older if he studied what he was given.

He watched the scientist, browbones lifting as he adjusted the bundle in his arms and revealed what was ensconced within. A pair of floating hands signed reflexively at the same time as Gaster replied in his odd—incomprehensible to most—voice. 

“This is Papyrus.”

 

It was an accident.

He snuck out of the lab to go exploring, restless and stupid with youthful naivety, when a wild-eyed monster cornered him. The dog’s fur was matted, teeth yellowed and gleaming with saliva, its irises smoldering drops of lava. It outsized him in every capacity, a hulking mass of muscle and scarred flesh, the hollow of its rib cage leading to a thick neck and hulking shoulders. One ear was torn clean off and dust clung to him in a greyish veil. 

Sans pressed his back to the damp tunnel wall, eyelights twitching back-and-forth, searching for an escape, the only illumination in the blackness the glow of phosphorescent mushrooms. He quivered, terrified, but plastered a sneer on his face regardless, knowing that any display of weakness was dangerous in this world, and his sharkish teeth were the only intimidating thing about him. His father’s position protected him from the worst of the kill-or-be-killed mentality of the Underground, though the scientist often reminded Sans that it would do him well to toughen up, should something happen to him he’d need LV to survive the cruelties outside the lab. Sans trained with his copious reserves of magic, but poor stats made sparring ill advised.

“f-fuck off, mutt!” he growled, flaring his aura, shoving as much aggressive intent at the other monster as he could muster to the surface. “or i’ll rip yer face off.” 

A low chuckle, like gravel crunched beneath the heel of a boot, reverberated through the dog’s chest, the air thickening as he answered Sans’ challenge. “Can’t believe a pretty little piece of fluff is just wanderin’ ‘bout Waterfall unattended. Still in stripes. My lucky day.” He reached out a paw and slid it down the side of Sans’ face, projecting his intentions in a maelstrom, his aura battering harshly against his own. Magic entwined in magic. There was a manic edge to the chill. As if he were one EXP away from losing his mind to LV’s tempestuous thrall. “Pretty, tasty bones.”

Sans ducked and darted to the side, only to be grabbed by the back of his jacket and slammed against the wall. His skull rang from the impact, the stench of wet rock and slime invading his nose, a trickle of moisture dribbling from the ceiling into his eye socket. He squirmed, scrabbling for purchase with dull claws, his loosely tied shoes slipping off one foot as he thrashed. A paw slid up the back of his neck, “No collar. You an orphan or just stray too far from home, tasty bones?”

Children were treasured. Coveted. Parents rarely let their offspring out of sight until they themselves either dusted, or their child gained enough LV to be undesirable to those allured by the purity of untainted magic. Some even made deals with stronger monsters, arranging for their children to go into another’s care as soon as they were out of stripes. Usually this only happened when that kid showed exceptional promise, and with the resource issues affecting the impoverished, it was more valuable to culture the best of the best than let them become fodder for the strong.

It was easy to see how the dog monster came to the conclusion that he did.

Sans twisted and sank his teeth into his forearm, earning an explosion of curses before he pried him off, “Spunky little piece of fluff. I’ll have fun with you.” His eyelights widened as the dog held him up with one paw and fished out a length of frayed rope from a pocket with the other, “I’ve gotta proper collar for you back home. Don’t hafta worry about getting caught out all alone again. You won’t be leaving my sight for a long time.”

No. NO. This wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t let it happen!

His magic surged to the surface and suddenly, they were in an encounter, their souls vulnerable to the other. Trapped until death or mercy. 

And it was his turn to ACT.

It was an accident, really. He never meant to trigger the encounter, or to do as he did next. He was scared and desperate and it was like the inside of his bones was burning. The dog’s soul turned blue. After that, it was a blur. All he could remember was a molten detachment from his self, his focus entirely on the sins laid bare before him. Numbers. Flashes. Whispers. This monster didn’t deserve to live. He’d only go on to harm others.

When Sans returned to reality, it was to a blaze of light and a distinct cracking noise that he’d later in life recognize as a soul ready to shatter. The dog laid in a heap on the ground.

“g-give up,” Sans rasped, swaying, sweat dripping off his skull. Why was he so tired? The other monster pushed up to his knees, eyes void of any coherency. He lunged, teeth aimed straight for Sans’ neck. Somehow, Sans stepped out of the way, shoving the other monster between the shoulders as he passed. Out of reflex from his training at the labs, Sans summoned bone constructs from the ground, intending on shielding himself with them, but the dog monster failed to regain his balance and a split second later, impaled himself on the sharpened end of one of the flimsy bullets. 

CLINK.

He sucked in a harsh breath as the dog monster fell to dust.

Sans killed his first monster.

He clutched at his chest, curling up into a ball against the wall, waiting for the impact of so many EXP hitting him at once. But it never came.

Some time later, his father’s shadow fell upon him, and Sans looked up to meet his calculating gaze.

“Interesting.”

 

He was finally out of stripes. No longer a child, but not yet an adult. The lab assistants practically saw him as one of their own these days, never looking twice when Sans passed them in the hall with a delicate mass of machinery in hand. He wasn’t the prodigal genius like his father, but he had brains enough to put monsters twice his age to shame. Wingdings wasn’t the best caretaker, but Sans was alive with career prospects ahead of him. What more could a monster with 3HP ask from their parent?

Probably a touch more investment in his younger spawn, but that was beside the point.

Sans passed a glance at Papyrus as he walked by the open door of Gaster’s lab. He sat in the corner of the room, intently piecing together a wooden puzzle cube. Around him, his toys were neatly arranged by type and color, including his number blocks stacked in a pyramid in descending order. Hyper attentive little babybones. Papyrus always lost his freaking mind if someone made a mess of his orderly world. Sans could not figure out where he got that quirk and wondered if he’d grow out of it. Both Sans and Dings had a habit of trailing chaos around their living spaces as they absently went about their day.

He dragged his gaze away and kept walking. There was a part he needed out of one of the nearby supply closets. Machinery and engineering held Sans’ fascination more than other subjects. Though if he were honest, he doubted he’d make a name for that breed of science when his own father built the CORE and one of his peers, Alphys—the stammering daughter of one of the head techs—designed functional robots before she bothered showing she could actually talk.

 

Sans ambled into the closet he assumed he’d find the part in, and focused on a box sitting high on a shelf. It should have been easy.  
He wasn’t expecting a tremor to wrack the Underground…  
...or for his arm to snap with a sickening crunch.

 

“You should be dead.”

“why aint i?”

Gaster gave Sans a flat stare. He wasn’t a fan of Sans’ lazy language usage. Apparently being able to speak in a font other monsters could understand without translation meant he should show his appreciation and treat the spoken word with the utmost respect. The Royal Scientist rolled his one functional eyelight and examined the gleaming vial of red fluid held aloft by one of his hand constructs. Creepy. Useful, but creepy.

“I believe this substance improves your durability beyond natural capacity in a manner that does not register in your apparent soul attributes,” he said, scribbling notes down into a journal. “...interesting.”

“y’know what it is?” 

He didn’t look up at Sans, “Yes. Rest assured, it is...natural.”

“paps doesn’t bleed.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Gaster affirmed. “Just one of the many differences between the two of you, though not one I...anticipated.”

“yer hidin’ somethin’ from me doc.”

Gaster’s only response is a faintly indulgent smile.

 

“doc.”

“Yes, Sans?”

“...what are my stats?”

“Same as always.”

“always?”

“Since they stabilized when you were a toddler, yes.” 

“...y’sure?”

“Positive.”

 

Gaster stood at the edge of walkway crossing over the CORE. He was talking. Babbling. It was an incoherent mess, his hand constructs waving manickly. It happened so fast, too fast, yet each second dragged on in slow motion. Gaster fell—jumped—into his creation. 

 

Sans blinked, a headache, a terrible, awful headache. DINGS! He peered over the edge of the walkway. 

“Who are you? What’re you doin’ here?”

He looked back to see an unfamiliar monster in a lab coat. Sans opened his mouth to inform him just who he was when a wave of nausea tumbled through him. He...why was he here? It was like his thoughts were jumbled. The CORE. Hotland. He was here...he was here…

His brother.

Papyrus. 

His baby brother Papyrus.

The baby brother was...raising alone? No. That...Where were their parents? They were orphaned. Because...because...because their father jumped! The Royal Scientist lost his mind and jumped. Right? No. Dings would never jump. And if he did, then that meant the position was wide open, and he wasn’t looking to fill in his old man’s shoes. Monarchs were rather fond of the whole inherited title thing.

“have yer seen the doc anywhere?”

“Doc?” The other monster cast him a suspicious look, fingers unfurling as if prepared to initiate a fight.

“doctor gaster. y’know, w.d. gaster. royal scientist. made this fancy tin can generatin’ the power down here fer all the underground.”

A blank look fell upon the other monster’s face before he shook it away, “There is no such person. Now I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises before I call the guard.”

Sans fled the scene. 

 

“papyrus!”

Sans didn’t think, he grabbed the rat by the soul with blue magic and ripped them off his brother. They’d been alone—abandoned—for a month now. Hotland was unkind to alone. There were those that followed the laws set by the king, and others that didn’t care how they got their EXP fix, perfectly at ease with pouncing on a child for the easy kill. Luckily, Papyrus was tougher than Sans. He had HP fit for a dozen kids his age. Unluckily, he had a mouth and wouldn’t do what he was fucking told to save his own life! 

“git yer dumbass outta sight,” he growled, baring his fangs at his brother as the young skeleton rose from the ground. There were a smattering of cracks on his cheek. For once his brother did the smart thing and ran, leavin Sans alone with the rat.

Since they were orphaned—were they always on their own? No, they had a father once. A father that left them. Lost himself to his own genius—Sans did all that he could to protect his brother. He wasn’t even an adult. Just a teenager. Trapped in his obligations. Stuck with a babybones to raise and no resources to do so. It would be easier—smarter—to find Papyrus someone willing to collar him. He’d make a fine guard someday with his ever growing stats and wellspring of mana. An asset to the kingdom.  
Unlike Sans. Weak, brittle-boned Sans.

His grip on the rat’s soul slipped as he dragged in a ragged breath. Fatigued from lack of food and sleep. He didn’t dare pull the other into an encounter. He likely wouldn’t make it out of one alive. The rat hit him with a CHECK, the magic swift but invasive, then began to laugh. 

“Hello FreeEXP,” he rasped.

Sans held his ground, meeting the rat with a CHECK of his own. A shiver passed through them both. Just looking at the rat nauseated him. Suddenly, the rat pounced, a ring of bullets encircling them, preventing Sans from running away lest he touch the other’s constructs. They tangled on the ground, the impact and intent shaving off a HP. Sweat slicked down his skull. He reached for his own magic, but most of it escaped him. So he did the one thing he could do. He summoned a single bone and thrust it up into the rat’s chest. The lack of sharpened point meant it did not impale, but instead it knocked the rat back. There was a scream (did he break one of its ribs?) Sans rolled to his feet and tossed another bone, cursing his exhaustion as the malformed construct bounced off his opponent’s torso. The rat lurched, stepping backwards, dangerously close to the open lava pools that covered Hotland.

“I’m gonna enjoy killing you, level bait,” the rat declared, regaining himself, the air humming as he summoned what was likely his special attack. 

_He deserves to die/I don’t wanna die_

Sans surged forward and gave the rat a shove. Clawed hands gripped his clothes, his bones, his skull. And then they were both pitching over the edge into the lava—

(interesting)

—the rat lost its grip and Sans’ ribcage slammed against solid ground.

Down, down, down, the rat fell.

When he hit the molten earth, a shot of cold sliced into Sans’ soul. Oh Angel Above that hurt. WrongWrongWrong! He curled up around himself, trying to shield his trembling, aching soul. Eventually, the agony stopped, replaced by an odd numbness. 

“SANS?”

He pushed himself up off the ground and looked at Papyrus with pinkish eyelights.

 

Anger. Guilt. Resentment. Bitterness. Jealousy. Shame.

He killed for Papyrus—again—but this time, it was on purpose. This time, he summoned blasters. This time...this time he didn’t gain EXP. 

 

The next time he dealt the final blow by holding them underwater until their soul gave out. 

 

Killing became easier.

 

The first time Papyrus gained LV was like taking in a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “if yer old enough to kill someone else, yer old enough to take care of yerself.” Red eyes met still snowy white. Papyrus remained incorrupt. But he could see it in him. The capacity to do more. He wasn’t like Sans. He was strong. His magic wouldn’t betray him like it did Sans. They held a stubborn standoff. Papyrus didn’t leave, and Sans didn’t make a move to force him away. That night Sans wondered when it was that his younger brother grew tall enough to look him straight in the eyesockets.

 

Call it a crisis. Because what other word would one use to describe purposefully subjecting oneself to acknowledged insanity? It’d been months since he last thought of Dings and his fall. He lived with his brother in Snowdin in a house Sans found a way to pay for. He was building a reputation. So was Paps. They had a life and were carving out their place in this hellhole. Yet here he was back at the CORE. Back in the labs. There was still no Royal Scientist. Nobody was fool enough to step forward for a position left open so long. He snuck around until he found the door he was looking for, momentarily befuddled on how he knew the combination to the lock, or why he’d come here in the first place.

It was like his memories were in motion. Shifting. Water flowing through cracks to fill in the gaps, his head aching when he paused long enough to take notice of the hidden faults in the glass. His father was forgotten by everyone but him. And even he didn’t remember some days. Yet here he was standing in his long ago abandoned lab, staring at what remained of his legacy, coated in dust from years of neglect. 

He approached the machine Gaster obsessed over before his demise. 

“alternate timelines,” Sans mumbled, recollections skittering like ash between his phalanges. “time travel. reset theory. yer researched so much, fer what? yer wuz ‘sposed to be figurin’ out howta break the barrier.” He dragged off the tarp covering the machine. 

Nothing good came of this invention.

Yet for the next few weeks, Sans repeatedly snuck into the lab to disassemble and steal the parts, all to rebuild the damned thing in his basement. Diverting power to supply energy to the thing was an easy feat comparatively. 

 

It was the worst mistake of his life.

 

Maybe it was because he was because he was a Gaster. A soul and bone descendant of the forgotten genius. There were things monsters and men weren’t supposed to know. Those twisting, leaping lines. They haunted his dreams. As did the whispers of not quite lost memories. A man who spoke in hands. He drowned it out with liquor and LV until he just couldn’t care anymore. Pathetic. When and how did he become so pathetic? 

His brother dragged him out of the bar more nights than he didn’t. 

His younger, still in stripes brother.

The brother who couldn’t remember a father.

The brother he raised.

The brother he let gain LV and scars until it hurt to look at him.

It’d been a long time since he felt enough to even conceive of shame. Papyrus would be better off without him. Would be stronger if he cut Sans out by dusting him. He was fighting all his own fights now. Most of Sans’...All of Sans’. When was the last time Sans actually fought?

 

“You killed him.”

“fucker attacked a royal sentry. wuz i ‘sposed to let ‘im live, boss?”

“...DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IF YOU REMEMBERED HOW TO FIGHT!”

“oi, mercy on my hearin’. now piss off. yer can stop hoverin’.”

“SANS.”

“if yer check me i’mma shove a boot so far up yer coccyx you’ll taste rubber.”

 

Sans would never forget the first time he held a pistol aboveground. It solved so many problems. 

 

.

 

Sans—Red—roused in a cold sweat. Beside him, his copy from one of those alternate timelines Dings obsessed over laid curled in a ball. The healing matrix was gone, replaced with bone. Had the DT done that? The DT they supposedly shared in their marrow? He laid a hand over his own sternum. 

(Interesting)

His claws curled.

“your soul hurtin’?”

Red eyelights met hazy white.

“...yea.”

And it was. He just didn’t understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was haaaaard. And it didn't wanna behaaaaave. But it's here. And should answer quite a few questions for those of you who've been wondering about Red and Karma. Maybe. ^_-
> 
> Anyway, you want to know more about the characters of this fic or one of my others? [Submit a question for my ask comic](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/181258459462/holiday-ask-pg-1-2-cast-smoke-in-the-mirror). It's a thank you for all those who've been supportive of my writing these past couple months. You interested in concept art or just want to see a certain scene illustrated? I'm also asking for [suggestions on what to draw next](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/181440509682/my-next-drawing).


	15. Promises, Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** Red has a choice to make. Sans is unhelpful as always.

“i have a theory,” was becoming Red’s most hated phrase. Sans clambered out of bed, clad in only his rumpled trousers, and started sifting through the scattered papers on the floor. Red groaned and struggled to his feet, feeling like he’d been the one shot instead of the FreeExp. “how much do you remember about him?”

“‘bout who? dings? wuz that hafta do wit my soul?”

Sans plucked up a shirt from the remnants of what must have been his trash tornado, and pulled it on, buttoning it up poorly as he continued to mill about the room, searching, eyeslights small but alert. “more than you think. if what i believe is happening...is happening.”

“tch, guess it varies from day-to-day. royal scientist. boss monster. not quite as tall as boss, but they look similar. glasses. think there wuz sumthin’ wrong wit his skull an’...hands? he wasn’t the worst monster around. didn’t dust a low hp pipsqueak like m’self to save himself the magic drain. kept busy with his research, always designin’ machines. buildin’ them wasn’t his expertise but there was always other monsters around fer that, unless it wuz fer his personal projects. would lock up for days in his lab and not come out. dings eventually snapped and hopped in the core. or fell. not sure which. but ‘m pretty sure he jumped. there yer go. dings in a nutshell.”

Red shuffled after Sans, who cleared his desk with a gracless sweep of an arm, before laying down a fistful of crumpled papers. He then tapped on that ‘phone’ of his, pulling out a dog-eared packet of yellowed pages. Red peeked over at them. Clipped to the front was a color photograph of that machine which looked an awful lot like Dings’. He reached a claw out and snatched the photo, “so this is yer dings’ machine?”

Sans swiped the glossy picture back and returned it to the papers with an affirmative grunt. He flattened some crumpled sketches next to the more detailed schematics already on the table. All were odd versions of his old man’s machine. “the differences between our timelines are stark in some areas, and yet others remain stable. things that one may call keystones. i...i’ll admit i am not fully aware of how it works. but i suspect there are certain events and persons that have caused our two divergent universes to exist and to...cross. things that may or may not...belong.”

“anomalies.”

“yes. and if the anomaly is great enough of a threat to the stability of those keystones, there might very well be forces to rectify the problem and maintain balance.”

That earned a scoff from Red, “yer called those ‘echo’ things anomalies. but by yer logic, yer one too.”

“heh. funny how anomalies create more, like a glitch in the code of reality. getting rid of the cause of the glitches will often resolve the problem.”

Get rid of the cause. Eyelights sparked over to where Sans bent over the desk, palms flat on the surface, looking resigned and exhausted despite the almost enthusiastic way he acted since waking. “that’s why yer were talkin’ ‘bout going off to kill yerself, aint it? your machine yer said wuz sabotaged had to do wit this timeline thing...it wuz to take yer home before the other anomaly ‘took care of’ yer to stabilize the timeline or whatever.” Red waited a soulbeat for the denial. Sans only chuckled.

“whelp, can’t say i’m surprised another me could figure me out. wanna cookie?”

Red snarled, his LV snapping around him as he slammed a fist on the table, right in the middle of the papers, forcing Sans to look at him, “i want proper answers, level bait! what does all this bullshit have to do wit my soul and how the fuck yer thought a dip in the river would make them echoes just magically go away? the fuck frisk have to do wit all this? how’d yer even get here in the first place?” Sans had the audacity to shrug. Of all the noncommittal bullshit…

“long and short of it, i don’t have all the answers. only theories. m’just a thousand shitty jokes and a pinch of theoretical physics stuffed in a bag of bones.” Evasive. Hollow. Sans smoothed the wrinkled paper peeking around Red’s hand, “sorry to disappoint. though if i’m right, the pain you’re feeling is your soul taking note of the dissonance in the universe. the existence of two versions of itself. comes with awareness. sure, on some level you knew, but you didn’t accept it as reality. now? your soul’s all confused. it don’t want two of itself around. the universe don’t want there to be two versions of it around. and while we could convince your soul that mine aint some missing piece of it that wandered away and recognize me as a separate entity, i don’t have high hopes of convincin’ the universe.”

“aint that mean yer hurtin’?” Sans rolled his shoulders in place of a reply. “and the kid?”

“heh. still on about that? bud, there’s some questions that you don’t want the answers to. so a word of advice: stop askin’.” Red lifted his hand, claws curling, growl low in his throat, ready to smack the numbskull for this dodginess, when Sans shoved a paper into his face. “that’s what the machine looked like ‘fore it was junked. i salvaged what i could, but some of the parts i had in my inventory when i came here...not sure if i could ever…” His shoulders dropped even further. Looking ready to pitch over despite the DT Red now knew he had pulsing in his marrow. His literal willpower beyond that of any monster around, all contained in a glassy bubble of HoPe. Red wondered how the night would have turned out if Sans’ will to die had been greater than his desire to protect him. 

Another realization welled up as he stared at the machine sketch in his phalanges. The rusted gears of his own scientific mind jolting into place. Sans intervened twice during the gunman’s assault, despite knowing that the anomaly was attempting to ‘balance’ the universe. His eyelights slid to the other skeleton. 

“yer’d have all the time yer’d need if i wuz gone.”

Sans grinned at the wall, “what’s that you said? sumthin’ ‘bout leavin’ my apartment finally?”

“the anomalies would go away if yer wuz gone.”

“i mean folks gotta be wonderin’ where you are by now.”

Red dropped the paper, “but there has to be a way to buy time without one of us dustin’.”

“awe, ya care. how sweet.”

Eyelights traced the curve of Sans’ straining smile. Sans knew. Or at the very least, has a ‘theory’ about how he might resolve the issue without death. Red just didn’t have the energy or the patience to pry it out of him. “yeah, well, hard to learn how to play with space-time by m’self. need yer alive til then. ‘less yer plan on skippin’ out on yer side of the bargain.”

“i’m good for my promises. question is, are you?”

It was a cold, emotionless stare. A dare entwined with doubt. Red narrowed his sockets and stepped back from the table, scrutinizing Sans’ skull and the room. No bickering. No snappy jokes. No laugher or growls. They were two silent chess pieces at a standoff, unable to tell pawn from royalty, black from white, blind and floundering for fractures of what they once called devotion. “tch. i’m keepin’ yer fuckin’ secrets.” He couldn’t say he wasn’t a snitch, but singing would only make this birdie fly the coop. Maybe go play house in a cat’s mouth. Red grit his teeth against the discomfort in his soul and the twisting throb in his head. Loyalties and promises were all in a knotted heap around his throat, chaining him until he choked. 

Frisk didn’t want him messin’ around with Sans. Asgore wanted him to make the level bait less of a temptation as well as deal with what he thought was a traitor. Sans didn’t want this alternate timeline and anomaly information to leak. And Toriel would eat him alive if he didn’t keep Frisk safe or did something to endanger the FreeExp. It was enough to make a guy the praying sort—likely because the amount of whiskey required to cope would invoke a religious experience.

“so yer got any bright ideas on why we’ve only been shot at twice since yer arrivin’?”

“yep.”

So much for attempting on educating himself in the wake of this mounting fiasco. How was he supposed to appease the Dreemurs if Sans kept skipping around and only answering questions properly when he felt like it? And apparently his brother was now in the mix in terms of complicating things....

“how are yer gonna stop it from happenin’ ‘gain?”

Sans, who was actually straightening up papers into something that could be called order, gave a single bark of laughter, “can’t. not without…” He shook his skull, suddenly crumpling again, hunched over the table in palatable defeat. “...i don’t belong here, red. i don’t belong. the machine probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. the universe wants me gone and you shoulda let it purge me. then maybe i coulda finally...finally…” He was the picture of helplessness and despair. 

Somehow looking more frail and broken than when he was halfway to dusting in Red’s arms. 

There was more going on in that skull of his than what Sans was willing to divulge. Being trapped here couldn’t be THAT soul cracking. Red found himself wondering if the heightened levels of DT in Sans’ system was causing this emotional swing, dragging Sans out of apathy and shoving him into the face of his ‘issues’ when he didn’t have the capacity to cope. A moment passed, Sans still absorbed in his meltdown, and Red made a choice. One he should have a while ago.

He reached a clawed hand up to San’s cervical vertebra and closed his fist.

“wha—?”

Searing magic tried to snap in response, but overworked manalines sparked weakly as Red let his own aura encompass them both. “don’t have a collar fer yer, but this’ll do in the meantime.” In truth, it was more a visible symbol than anything else. The important bit was the impression of magic. The triumph of the strong over the weak. Sans’ lurched against Red’s grip, clearly panicking. Desperate. Like he believed Red was attempting to kill him. Then, just as quickly, he went limp, a faint hum in the air. 

He let his hand fall away.

“feel better?”

“what did you just do?”

“don’t get in a tiff, it’s nuthin’ harmful. just left a little of my magic on yer. given we’re the same guy an’ all, it wuzn’t that hard to do.” Helped Sans wasn’t at full strength and capable of chucking him across the room in retaliation. This sort of thing happened one of two ways, with expressed consent of the weaker to be marked...or with the stronger overpowering the weaker’s magic. “should help yer feel safer and calmer.” And more likely to make rational decisions. “and if yer don’t decide to be pissy about it, it’ll keep boss and the dreemurs from botherin’ yer ‘bout the issue.” And it would appease Asgore’s demands of Red. Winners all around, honestly. “it’s also temporary. easier to imprint magic onto objects than another monster.” Unless you wanted to involve souls. And while Red was just barely coming to terms with the fact that he might be rather...interested in a less than platonic fashion...in who was in essence himself...he hadn’t lost all common sense. 

Sans rubbed his neck, certainly looking spunkier than before, “your world is fucked if you all think going around giving people magic hickies without permission is perfectly normal and acceptable behavior.”

Red blinked at Sans, not quite knowing what that word ‘hickey’ meant, deciding to place it with that weird rectangle is somehow a ‘phone’ in his mental catalogue of weird terms he wasn’t going to admit confused him. “yep, if definitely worked. yer back to yer judgmental, prickish self.”

“fuck you.”

“yer’d pass out from exhaustion before we’d get the the main event, pet.”

The sharkish grin that widened on Red’s skull was met with a flat look from Sans, “call me that again and i will conveniently lose you in the void.” He frowned, still rubbing his neck, as if he could wipe away the mark. It would fade in time, especially when Sans recovered and could ‘cover’ it up with his own magic. “just get out, will you. i’ll leave alone bridges and won’t go wandering down any dark alleyways.”

“promise?”

Red wasn’t surprised when the only answer he received was a steady shove out of the apartment and a door slammed in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short and took too long to write. @_@
> 
> So, yeah, RL happened and kept happening. Including layoffs at my place of work which left us short-staffed at the start of busy season, and me injuring myself while keeping up with some crazy long work hours. TL:DR: I'm in a wrist brace. Wrist braces don't make drawing or writing very easy.
> 
> Anyway, my muse has also been terribly fickle, so I've been dabbling in some short stories that will eventually end up posted. If you want some bittersweet mobfell flavor, I recently posted one called 'All That Jazz'. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Your comments, kudos and support here and on tumblr are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> .
> 
> CHAPTER NOTES:  
> \+ Callback to chapters 7 and 8, in which Don Dreemur implies that one of the solutions to Sans being a trouble magnet is to get him some LV or for him to accept the protection of another monster. Edge also threatens to collar Sans as well.
> 
> \+ Sans wasted a lot of energy healing
> 
> \+ One might ask, how have Sans and Red avoided being 'marked' in the past. Simple. They both have an f-ton of magic, and as Red said, it's easier imprinting magic onto an object than a monster, especially one that could just overwhelm any magic and rid it off themselves. For example, splashing ink on someone's hand is less permanent than spilling it onto paper.


	16. Every gent needs a tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [NEW COVER ART](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/184978005757/smoke-in-the-mirror-cover-redraw-2-ver-new%22)
> 
>  
> 
>  **Summary:** Red doesn’t like the look on Frisk’s face, and Sans is as unhelpful as always

The slap was unexpected and well deserved, if only because he let his guard down enough to be struck. Red’s eyelights guttered out and he lunged away from a follow-up blow, hands held in a placating manner, knowing full well that retaliation was as good as treason. Fortunately Frisk did not pursue him, letting their hands fall to their sides in lose fists, eyes narrow slits, shoulders pinched forwards. Despite the ire radiating off them like a bonfire, they didn’t so much as scratch his HP with the hit...a pacifist until their dying breath. How and why did they ever free monsterkind again? Red leaned back to slouch against Don Dreemur’s sitting room sofa and cocked his head towards the rooms in the back. This was evidently a conversation best had in private. Wasn’t good taste to dust on the nice rugs. 

Frisk crossed their arms and nodded, motioning for him to follow, leading them both into their bedroom. He considered protesting when the kid closed the door, but kept his gob shut when he caught the look on their face. It was enough to send shivers down his spine. Heh. He glanced around, casing his options for escape out of habit rather than a fear for his life. Frisk wouldn’t kill him. Upsetting Frisk would be the death of him, yes, but they’d never be the one crushing his soul with their bare hands. Maybe they’d be sentimental enough to keep some of his dust in a jar on their shelf like some humans did with their kin’s cremated remains. 

“uh, my apologies, boss, fer whatever it wuz i did to offend yer,” Red began, only to be interrupted by the stupid flower sniggering in the background. Flowey was in his usual spot on Frisk’s windowsill, thick, velvety curtains blocking out all but a narrow beam of late-morning sunshine. It was rather dim given the lack of illumination. He idly wondered why it was so dark when Lady Dreemur liked keeping her house airy and bright, but he supposed Frisk could do what they wanted with their private space. He tugged his gaze to Frisk’s face, sweat beading on his skull at their continued silence. 

Red swore their brown eyes gleamed ever-so-faintly like polished rubies as they paced, passing through the sunbeam as long legs devoured the expanse of the floor. Today was a skirt and slippers day, he noted idly, the fabric constricting their stride but not enough to slow them. It was rare to see them in anything but trousers. Special occasion? Somebody forgot to do laundry? Eventually, his wandering thoughts stuttered to a halt, the Dreemur heir having at last ceased their pacing, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Strike three,” Frisk said. “I told you to leave Sans alone, and here you are, telling my father that you’re making plans to collar him?”

“frisk, kid...boss, orders are orders. the don—”

“Gave you options.” Either Frisk was a hypocritical eavesdropper or this was just a case of them knowing things they shouldn’t, just like in the Underground.  
Red scoffed and lowered his voice to a hiss, “tell me exactly which option i had that wouldn’t involve makin’ a killer outta the free exp?”

Frisk rubbed their face with both palms, fingers carding through cropped bangs, “if you’d left sans out of this and just gone after the shooter—”

“afraid life aint always peachy. i didn’t want nuthin’ to do wit sans, but he just...things happened, frisk. it’s better this way.”

“I can’t see how! He was perfectly fine before...”

“ha! heh. hehe. fine. real funny, kid. i think we both know fine aint the word.”

Their hands dropped and their furious expression flickered with understanding, “No. Fine isn’t the right word. You’re right. But that’s even more of a reason to leave him be, Red. I know you two don’t get along and this business with the shooter put the both of you in danger, so wouldn’t it have been a wiser course of action to disengage with Sans as much as possible until you catch the one responsible? Between your fighting and the incident, all the stress isn’t good for someone like him and...”

“yer worried.”

“Yes,” they said. Raw. Throat sticky with emotion. “You’ve seen his stats.”

“yer’ve seen mine.”

Frisk pinched the bridge of their nose, “And you’re evading. Red, I hate doing this, but—”

“we came to an agreement!” he wasn’t exactly lying through his teeth. Sans and him came to an accord, yes, but not on the claim issue. But if Frisk ordered him away from Sans, then how were they supposed to figure out a way to resolve this anomaly fiasco? Who would intervene if Sans had another meltdown? When did he start to give a shit? “just ask ‘im. he got himself poggled last night and the two us had a real long talk when he sobered up. this town aint easy on the soul.”

“...and the gunman?”

“no news. it’s like he don’t even exist.”

Frisk hummed and drew close to Red, staring down at him with that inscrutable manner of theirs. “I see,” they moved away, picking up Flowey. For a moment, all Red could see was that little kid in borrowed trousers and a striped sweater, battered knees not trembling despite the hell they fell into. Ankle deep in snow, hair sticking to a bloodied cheek, they walked past him, ignoring his offered handshake with a smile, the cowardly flower that always whined about friendship and niceness, bandied about in an old boot in their arms. “I hope, for your sake, you aren’t lying, Red. If this turns out to be some kind of joke or twisted attempt at petty revenge…”

“it aint.”

“No?” As he floundered for an explanation, his thoughts trailed to Sans’ warm magic. To the undeniable fact that despite them being the same person, technically, that he wanted to jealousy soak up that burn as much as any other monster. That if given a chance, he might call Sans’ flirtatious bluffs more often than he already did, if only to enjoy the way his bones flushed. It was the peak of narcissism and ego, but when you’re already a little fucked in the head, what’s a little more vice added to the mix? “Oh…” Red blinked, noting the way Frisk’s expression melted into a smirk, and Flowey began audibly gagging. “That’s what you two talked about. You could have brought up the fact you two were ‘boning’, or is that supposed to be a secret since you’ve been acting like deNile is just a river in Egypt?”

“the fuck that suppose’ta mean?”

“It means I need to wash my brain of that image with bleach!” Flowey exclaimed, continuing to gag. “It’s only to talk about funny when it isn’t true.”

Red felt his skull heat and he coughed, tipping his hat to obscure his face and the glow that no doubt arose. Stupid magic. Betraying him like that. “i dunno what yer talkin’ ‘bout.” He willed his soul to slow. “just trust me a little, frisk. i know i never gave yer a reason to when we wuz underground, but i’d like to think i made up fer my mistakes by now. and i really don’ mean any harm to the free exp, he may be a lazy grifter that don’t deserve yer loyalty, but...i don’t wanna see ‘im dead either.”

Frisk drummed their fingertips on the side of Flowey’s pot, then sighed, “You’re dismissed, Red.”

He turned tail and skedaddled.

 

Life returned to a debatable normal after the meeting with the Dreemurs. Asgore and Toriel were both curious about his plans with Sans, and how he convinced the other to agree, or whether he managed to somehow get the jump on the level bait despite his being so slippery. He gave half-truths and distracted them will fluff in place of facts, assuring the Don that he’d keep Sans out of further trouble, and that he was certain that there were no signs of treason arising in his ranks. The paranoid old goat dismissed him with a warning that his patience wasn’t endless. Better results than expected, if he was honest. Toriel, however, stopped him before he left the house and thumbed a stain he hadn’t noticed on his sleeve. She didn’t say a word as he slipped out to attend his duties.

He didn’t see Papyrus until evening, and when his younger brother walked into the living room, spotting where Red laid, they both stared at the other, chins tilting up in acknowledgement. No verbal apologies. They both fucked up. Best to let the past be the past. Papyrus went into the kitchen and began to cook, leaving Red half an hour to examine the dark blue strip of cloth in his phalanges. It looked just like the tie Sans always wore, but it near vibrated with Red’s intent, possessive and icy, like it would bite anyone that came to close. Sans was already shifty. He didn’t need the level bait chucking him down the stairs and vanishing a week because of his delicate sensibilities. As the smell of tomatoes filled the room, Red sat up, tucking the tie away into his vest.

Later.

 

Later turned out to be nearly two weeks. 

Just like he suspected, Sans got slippery once Red took his sockets off of him, and he kept dodging his attempts to corner him. Papyrus picked the lock on his apartment to perform his proclaimed inspection to find the place...clean. Not clean enough to suspect Sans skipped town, but up the minimum livable standard. Numbskull was still soft on the taller skeleton. Knowing what he does now, it made a little more sense, if barely. Papyrus wasn’t his brother. Never would be. Making him happy wasn’t going to fix whatever happened to his younger brother anymore than avoiding Red was going to stop him from chasing him down.

Eventually, it all ended as it began.

Him and the Boss were ducking bullets after one of the local human gangs decided to jump them, and there was Sans, in the middle of it all, pink slippers included. He looked rough but no more than normal, and was wheeling his hotcat cart around the corner when the humans started throwing lead. A smarter skeleton would have hoofed it out of sight, but the FreeExp was notorious for his bad decisions. He instead stood there like a twit. Likely just as confident as always that he wasn’t about to be hit. 

Papyrus let out a snarl and sent a volley of bones towards the gangsters. “THE DAY I DECIDE TO WEAR NEW SHOES!” he groused, cracking aura whipping around him. His LV was acting up. Pushing him. Craving a kill. It made Red’s head spin a little. His brother was one scary monster, especially when on edge. Lifting an arm, blue bones jutted out of the earth, impaling two unfortunate souls, and sending the others scattering. Both of the men caught by the blue attack froze in place. Seemed these goons knew that blue meant stop or suffer—about time, Red was giving up hope that they’d ever catch the hint. Probably the high mortality rate. 

With two humans in his control, Papyrus picked them up by their souls and flung them at those that avoided his earlier assault. “YOU CAN HELP AT ANY POINT, BROTHER!” One of the men bounced of the concrete with a resounding crack. Whelp. Somebody broke some bones. Red fiddled with the trigger of his pistol, grinning, “y’sure, looks like yer got this handled, boss.”

“BAH, THE HUMANS ARE OF NO CONCERN. IT IS THAT INSUFFERABLE WASTE OF SPACE YOU SUPPOSEDLY PUT A CLAIM ON.” Papyrus grunted as one of the uninjured men took a shot at Sans, who was now meandering backwards like he finally decided that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the best place to stand and make a sales pitch. How was that guy him in another timeline? No self preservation whatsoever. Red caught Sans’ eyelights with his own and grinned, likely looking like a predator about to pounce on his chosen prey. He pointed the pistol at the man that shot at Sans and pulled the trigger, the rush of EXP signalling a fatal blow. Sans actually startled at that, back peddling faster. Probably smart. Neither he nor his brother were in an especially generous mood, not with heightened tensions spurring them to fight, fight, fight. 

Papyrus launched across the street and began chasing the humans away, leaving Red to retrieve a certain someone that hadn’t been where he was supposed to be for a fortnight. After that whole soul-to-soul talk, he thought they were at least a little through with this nonsense. He took avoidance to the next level. Sans pasted on an unaffected grin as Red closed the gap between them, still walking backwards like he was on a Sunday stroll through the park. As Red drew closer, he realized that Sans was in a new set of clothes, already slept in until they wrinkled into oblivion, but new. Still poorly fitted. He could see one of his suspenders slipping from under his vest to sag a little over his shoulder, the buttons misaligned on everything. It was like he’d never worn buttons before and couldn’t be bothered to learn how to fasten them properly.

“hotcats for sale, get’em while they’re hot and fresh,” Sans bumped against a wall, back flush to the bricks, cart positioned between him and Red as a makeshift barrier. Red narrowed his sockets, the ‘mark’ on Sans’ cervical vertebrae faint but present. After two weeks with no contact from Red, it should have faded completely. “sorry, pally, my neck aint on the menu, so you can stop making eyes like you wanna take a bite.”

Red leaned on the cart, still giddy off the exp spike and holstered his pistol, “as temptin’ as that sounds, i’m not thinkin’ of biting, as much as how a certain someone vanished right after we came to an agreement. bad move, sansy. bad move.”

“what? you wanted me to stop gettin’ into trouble. until right now, you haven’t heard a peep about me, don’t that count as behavin’?”

“details, details,” Red hauled over the cart and grabbed for Sans, who as always, avoided him, but luckily, he snared what he was after. Loosely knotted, the tie came off with the smallest tug, coiling between them like beheaded serpent. Sans lifted a browbone, and Red shrugged, tipping over a glass condiment bottle, the poorly fasten lid flying off, and the contents splattering everywhere. The cart, the wall, and both skeletons. Sans looked between the mess and Red. “whoops.”

“that was just petty.”

“yep.”

“i want a divorce,” Sans deadpanned. “you never treat me proper.”

“and here i wuz with an anniversary present,” Red quipped back, pulling the tie out of his vest. “how ‘bout yer clean up a little and try this on.”

Sans’ gaze flickered between Red and the dead man on the street, “have i ever told you that i don’t find gettin’ shot at much of a romantic occasion.”

“funny trait fer a moll to have, but i guess if that’s what yer have to tell yerself to get by day-to-day.”

“another nickname to add to the list of what will get red abandoned in the void if he calls me them again.”

“empty threats. sexy,” Red kept the tie extended, ignoring his LVs demands to (fight, overpower, dominate) put the accessory on him himself. “all this talk of the void and no action to back it up. still waitin’ on them lessons.” Sans grunted and wiped himself down with a cloth, his magic a little fidgety. Red was certain the level bait was going to throw the tie in his face, but he took it and held it, phalanges loose like it was going to bite him. “it’s either this or i refresh that bit of magic from before. the dreemurs all know ‘bout the mark and agree it’ll keep yer safer.”

“i’m not your pet, red.”

“nah. yer aint. but nobody gots to know that but us. don’t lie and say yer didn’t feel better after i gave yer a little of my magic.”

“tiba-honest the whole murdering someone right in front of me wasn’t the best way to sell your case.”

“he wuz shootin’ at yer, sansy, and as far as other monsters are concerned, yer mine to protect. aint murder when yer protectin’ what’s yers.”

Sans chucked he tie back at Red, “thanks but no thanks. i think it’s best we minimize our contact with each other, instead of increasing it. i’ll give you shortcutting lessons but beyond that—” PING! His expression went flat. “let me go.”

“i aint the one who’s turned yer blue.” 

“THAT WOULD BE ME!” Papyrus strode over, having taken advantage of Sans’ distraction to literally backstab him through the wall. The ghostly impression of a bone fading from the smaller skeleton’s chest. “HELLO AGAIN. NOW I DO BELIEVE YOU ONCE SAID YOU TRUSTED ME NOT TO STAB YOU IN THE BACK. SEE WHAT YOUR IGNORANCE GETS YOU?” 

“i’m alive, aint i? theory still holds in my book. now that you’ve proven your point…”

Papyrus swiped the tie from Red, and yanked Sans over the cart by his soul, dangling him like a puppet just a few inches above the ground. One of those obnoxious slippers dropped off a socked foot. “Hm. For once you didn’t slack off when making something, Sans.” The level bait wore an odd look before realizing that Papyrus was referring to Red. “See what you can accomplish when you try?” He promptly looped the tie around Sans’ neck and knotted it, fixing it in place with practiced ease. Sans’ eyelights went wide and fuzzy as Papyrus dropped the spell, depositing Sans on his coccyx. “NOW GET HIM HOME AND SORTED. HE’S A MESS AND YOUR RESPONSIBILITY!” He wagged a finger in Sans’ face, “BE THANKFUL IT’S NOT MY MAGIC AROUND YOUR THROAT, WHELP. YOU’D BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR AUDACITY THESE PAST TWO WEEKS.” 

Sans didn’t move. He sat there, stiff, phalanges hovering around the tie like he was afraid to touch it. Red knelt and pulled Sans to his feet, soul beating a little faster as he sensed his magic mingled with his alternate’s. Hot and cold, summer and winter, judgement and revenge. “uh...m’shoe…” He shuffled to slip his foot back into the pink monstrosity. He glanced at Red, at the ground and then at Papyrus. “what do you mean punished? i’m not a child.”

Papyrus scoffed, “THEN STOP ACTING LIKE ONE!”

“boss, back off. like yer said, he’s my responsibility.”

The taller skeleton straightened, “The Family has been wondering your whereabouts, whelp. Try not to make my brother look bad in front of them and come up with a proper excuse as to why you’ve been absent. Now, since some of us actually care to do our jobs instead of dallying, I’m going to clean up here.” With that, he pivoted, stalking off to dispose of the body laid out on the concrete.

“coppers will prolly show up soon. best to get outta sight before they arrive,” Red said, his voice low. Sans made a half-hearted gesture at the cart, but allowed Red to tug him away and down the block.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to 50k words and we've surpassed 350 kudos. You guys are awesome. <3 Thank you for reading and for your support!
> 
> You want to read more Kustard? I have a [drabble fic I'm updating daily](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18676624).


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